


Letters to Home

by medefreaky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Arya Stark-centric, Arya adopts a child, Building a family, Canon Divergence - War of The Five Kings, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Character Study, F/M, Female Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Karkhold, Loss of Virginity, Mother-Daughter Relationship, No War of the Dawn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Rare Pairings, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Wedding Night, Winterfell, no literally, the direwolves appear but later in the story, the others take a nap, trust me on this ok, wow this tagging buisness is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medefreaky/pseuds/medefreaky
Summary: Grief, Arya has come to realize, never really goes away. It stays with her, as a silent, steadfast companion that she can become used to, but never really get comfortable with, because she knows that they’re always there, eating away at a part of her, the part where her heart is, wounding it and making it bleed, yet no one else but her can see it.She’d told herself before that she doesn’t care if Harrion Karstark never gets to love her, but now she thinks that even if she did, he shan't be able to. For who could ever grow to love a girl with an eaten, bleeding heart?
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Catelyn Tully Stark, Arya Stark & Rickon Stark, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Beth Cassel/Bran Stark, Harrion Karstark/Arya Stark, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Wylla Manderly/Robb Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 57





	1. To Jon

> _298, Winterfell,_
> 
> _Dear Jon,_
> 
> _I miss you—I know I’ve said so in my previous letters but it is the truth. Everything is boring here without you (and Robb, too), and Mother says Bran is to join with uncle Edmure and his army as they depart from Riverrun. I’ve heard that’s where the fighting is less trick, and that’s probably the only reason why Mother is allowing him to go; Bran says that I’m just jealous, but he’s stupid, and if I were a stupid little boy like him, I would be allowed to squire for our uncle too, and I wouldn’t permit them to send me where I’m not like to see any true battles._
> 
> _Now tell me, how is Father? You said in your last letter that he keeps close to the king, but that must be because he’s trying to keep him from doing anything stupid, as is Lord Arryn. Sansa says that it is treason to even question our king’s judgement, but after what the queen did to him, I hardly believe he would care much for what I have to say. Mother held court the other day, and Bran and I hid in one of the alcoves to overhear. We heard her report to the council that the king has sworn off all intentions of negotiations with Tywin Lannister, and his only goal now is to kill all those who share blood with the treacherous queen and her twin._
> 
> _It must be so exciting, to be in the center of it all. Don’t ever tell anyone, but I’m a little jealous of you and Robb. The most interesting thing to happen here is the announcement that we are to depart for White Harbor in less than a fortnight. The four of us are going: Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, and of course Sansa and I, so just know that’s where you have to address your letters to me from now on, I will probably already be on my way there by the time mine reaches you._
> 
> _Mother says it will be a good opportunity for us to “complete our education” (whatever that means), and Sansa is thrilled to go, she says is the closest thing we have to a southern city in the North, but I’m not excited to go at all; Mother might need my help here, it will just be her and little Rickon in Winterfell after we leave, and someone ought to protect them. Besides, I think it stupid that we’re are the ones who will be send to White Harbor, when it’s Wylla Manderly the one that’s marrying Robb, so she should be coming here instead._
> 
> _Not that anyone cares much for what I think around here. Not since you left—you don’t have to worry, though! I am well, so are Bran and Rickon and even Sansa. And I’ve been trying to practice my needlework, when I can._
> 
> _I miss you. I miss all of you. You keep making sure Robb doesn’t get in too much trouble. And give Father a hug for me, if you can._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Arya._

* * *

**_(Before) And as the world comes to an end..._ **

When Arya Stark is ten years of age, she feels for the first time like her whole world has ended.

She’s been living at White Harbor for nearly three moons, and only recently has started to admit, though only to herself, that she is enjoying her time there. Lord Manderly is a kind, portly old man, who enjoys good food and music even in the midst of a war, and he always has a smile and some sweet at the ready to give Arya whenever she is in his presence. His two sons, Wylis and Wendel, are away fighting for her father in the south, but the wife of the eldest, the Lady Leona, is present to oversee the education of her four new charges… or at least pretend that she does, but she much prefers to continuously lament about the absence of her husband, and about the war, and about Arya entering the halls of the New Castle with moody boots. Instead, she leaves the tying task of trying to make a lady out of Arya (for really, she is the one who needs the majority of the work, as Sansa and Jeyne would both snicker about), to her small gaggle of septas, and to her daughters.

Arya doesn’t really have anything to complain about the Manderly sisters. She likes both well enough. Wynafryd is the oldest, and known to all to be the future Lady of White Harbor. She moves around the castle with the confidence of a young woman who knows she is to be mistress of its halls and all the lands surrounding it someday, confidence that Arya could only hope to one day achieve for herself.

Wylla, on the other hand, has a willful streak about her, like Arya. Willful Wylla, she’d heard her be called by the people of New Castle, a fond tone in their voices like the one she remembers being used in Winterfell, where she was named Underfoot. It was Wylla with whom she has come to spend the better part of her time when she is not at her lessons. Her brother’s future wife would take her to the beach to collect seashells, or to the market, or to hawk near the Seal Rock in the outskirts of the city, she would even join them in their dance classes and twirl with Arya around the room, both of them laughing breathless. Maybe it is all just a plan to gain Robb’s favor through her, but Arya could hardly bring herself to care when her company makes her forget, at least a little, that they are at war, and how much she misses the rest of her family, especially Jon. Wylla doesn’t care if the hem of her skirt is dirty or if her hair is very green, and Arya thinks that she will very much enjoy having her as a sister. At the very least, she will enjoy seeing her mother’s impression of her soon-to-be good daughter, if Sansa’s reaction is anything to go by.

They come looking for her when she’s working on her knitting during the afternoon. Knitting had been a discovery for her, especially because she likes it. It’s precise and methodical, and she doesn’t have to worry about it looking pretty, just neat and practical; the needles being easier to handle as they required the use of both hands.

She’s making gloves and scarves to give to the poor, now that winter is approaching they were needed more than ever, she’s been told. Septa Myrah is working beside her on a pair of warm gloves, both near the window were the last rays of the sun could reach them. Sansa is practicing with the harp at the other side of the room, while Jeyne Poole is helping her turn the pages of the note sheets.

Lady Wynafryd walks in with a somber look on her face, and asks both Stark sisters to accompany her to her father’s private solar. Jeyne looks annoyed at being left behind to whatever was happening, but a reassuring smile from Sansa assures her she will be informed as soon as the other girl is released from the lord’s summon.

Lord Manderly is wanting for them behind a large wooden table of light color and intricate mermaid shapes carved on it. He is sitting in an ornament chair equally as big to hold his massive form, his expression just as solemn as that of his granddaughter’s.

“Please take a seat, my dears.” He indicates to the seats in front of his desk with one of his hands. Sansa gives a polite, graceful curtsy before obeying, to which Arya follows hurriedly with one of her clumsy ones. She can notice the man regard them with a worried look before taking an open letter lying in his desk. Arya immediately recognizes her father’s seal in the parchment.

“Is it news from our father, my lord?” Sansa asks beside her, echoing her own silent question. Is the war finally over? Is their father summoning them home with him?

Manderly seems to be struggling to find the right words with which to continue. “It’s from your brother, my sweet,” he says gently, but Arya gets confused by his words. She doesn’t understand why Robb would have any need to write an official letter to them, or why Lord Manderly would have to call on them because of it. “You see, he writes to inform you both that your father was injured in battle, and was in a rather grave condition.”

Immediately, Arya tenses in her seat. “But he’s much better now, right? And they’re bringing him home,” she interrupts the man with a harsher voice than she should have, feeling her whole body start to tremble. At her side, Sansa had gone very quiet and very pale.

The lord gives a few coughs, covering his mouth with a silk handkerchief in what seems to Arya an attempt to gain some time. “I fear not, my lady.” Then he looks at them with his clear eyes starting to water. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya,” he speaks in a sad voice, “your dear, dear father, our Lord Stark… has died.”

Arya’s world shatters.

She jumps to her feet as if the chair she’s sitting on is on fire. She feels as if she herself is on fire, but at the same time she feels so terribly _cold_. She needs to get away. She can hear the screeching sound of the chair’s legs slithering across the floor as she pushes it away from her, but it sounds very far away, as if she is under water. She can barely hear Lord Manderly’s hasty protests, which she ignores as she makes a mad dash for the door, opening it with force and starting to run with all the speed that her legs can gather, past the very concerned looking Wynafryd and Wylla, who are waiting outside, past corridors and gates until she can see the godswood looming in the distance.

The keep’s godswood is small, smaller than the one back in Winterfell, that’s for sure. There is no heart tree, but a small weirwood at the center, its falling red leaves surrounding the skinny trunk like blood. Arya had asked once if she could go visit the enormous one they say is inside the Wolf’s Den, outside the city, but she was told a prison is no place for a little girl. At that moment the only place she wants to be is back home, in Winterfell, with her father, bouncing on his knee while the rumble of his deep, conforming voice traveled from his chest and through her back. She wants to scream, she wants to tear at her hair… she wants to cry.

And so she does.

There she stays, in the middle of the trees, for what feels like an eternity, hot tears going cold and dry against her cheeks. She should be praying to the gods for her father, praying for the safety of her brothers who are still in the war front, but the reality is that she can do neither of those things; she can only stare straight ahead, without seeing anything but the image of her father’s kind face, knowing that she will never be able to hold him again in her arms or gift him flowers to make him smile.

They find her after the sun had finally settled in the horizon, spuming her surroundings into a darkness that feels almost welcome to her. It is Wylla the one who manages to coax her to return to the chambers she shares with Sansa, taking her there herself and changing her from her sully dress and into a clean shift, while she stands there like a ragdoll, letting her do her work. It’s only once Wylla has tuck her in her bed, leaving the bedroom in complete darkness save for the moonlight leaking through the window, that she sees the figure in the other bed across the room, completely silent, but she can see their chest rising and falling in a much too methodical way as to suggest that they are sleeping.

It is Sansa, she knows, and part of her wants to just turn around in her mattress and ignore her, as they had both been trying to do to each other all their shared lives. But the other part of her feels too grief sickened to endure being alone in the dark, so she gets the warm quilts and furs off of her and pads with bare feet until she reaches her sister’s bed, getting quietly under the covers by her side. Almost immediately, Sansa turns around and searches for Arya’s hand under the dark, intertwining their fingers together in a strong grip, and she squeezes in return.

The gesture must be like opening a damn of water, because then Sansa lets out a broken sob. Or maybe its Arya the one who sobbed, but in little time both girls are openly crying, holding one another close. And for the first time in what feels like a very long time, Arya knows what it’s like to be comforted by her big sister.

* * *

Another part of Arya’s world ends shortly after she turns two-and-ten. The pain of losing her father never really got away, but she has finally, after almost two years, learned to live with it, tucked away in in her chest, poking out every now and then and never letting her feel completely happy.

And there are reasons a plenty to feel happy in Westeros at that moment, for the war between the Crown and the rebel, dishonorable House of Lannister is finally over. The fact that the westerners had been able to put on a fight for that long, when they had almost the entirety of five of the kingdoms against them, and only the Ironborn as their official yet uncertain allies, was commendable of the now dead Lord Tywin Lannister’s tenacity. But not only is he dead, but also the greater part of his highest men in command, and his eldest son, the man who had started this whole mess when he committed the unforgivable sin of covet the king’s wife and then lying with her, his own sister.

Now Cersei Lannister had gone into exile to Essos, and taken her remaining children with her. They say Jon Arryn had scarcely managed to convince King Robert not to follow them with their armies across the Narrow Sea, and instead had made a call for all the Seven Kingdoms to enter a new era of peace and healing, and for the king to enjoy his time with his new young and beautiful queen, Margaery of House Tyrell.

Maybe she will be able to give their king babes that looked like him, so they won’t have to go through this all over again, Arya thinks bitterly.

Meanwhile, the remaining of House Lannister had gone into shambles. They only managed to save their skins from the king’s wrath because of Tywin Lannister’s other son, Tyrion, who presented the king and his men with the severed head of his own father on a golden platter.

He was made Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West for that feat, though the power and influence of House Lannister had been severely diminished after their treason to the Crown and subsequent defiance. They had lost some of their territories and had to pay costly compensations in gold to King Robert and his allies. And they were hardly the only ones: the Iron Islands would also have to pay greatly for their continued disloyalty to their king, as other great houses from the Reach, the Riverlands, and even the Stormlands, who had been swayed by Lord Lannister to side to his cause with promises of riches and lands.

That reminds Arya of Theon Greyjoy, and Robb too. When the war had started, and Balon Greyjoy and his people sided with the Lannisters, her father didn’t make good to his promise of having Theon executed for his father’s deceit, instead decided to take him to fight with him and his two elder sons for the king. But Theon had chosen to take his family’s side in the end, and had deserted the Starks when they were only starting their march on the Westerlands, making an escape in the middle of the night to join his father’s longships docked near the Crag.

Arya had grown up alongside Theon, and so she knows him enough to imagine that he must have thought of his actions as very daring and clever indeed, but she also knows her brothers, and could be certain of the sense of anger and betrayal they must have felt by Theon’s abandonment. Well, back then, Jon had said in one of his letters that he wasn’t all that surprised by Theon ending up being a turncloack, but that he couldn’t deny being pissed off by it (and Arya had giggled by his crass choice of words). She suspects that Robb did in fact feel very much betrayed and wounded by his former friend’s desertion, but he scarcely mentioned him at all in his correspondence to his sisters, let alone the incident itself.

Arya can also admit that she too felt a little hurt by what Theon did. She had known him all her life, and she’d always thought he’d liked all of them.

Well, it matters not by now, she supposes, as Theon Greyjoy is lost to them, no one really knows what's been of his fate. Likewise, it doesn’t do any of them any good to dwell in the past, or so she’d heard Lord Manderly say more than once, she is just glad to be returning home; back to her mother and her brothers, and Old Nan and Hodor and Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin and all the others. All the familiar and friendly faces of her home and her people. No matter how kind and generous the Manderlys had been with Sansa and her, there’s nothing like Winterfell in her opinion. And besides, once there, Jon won’t be able to keep ignoring her.

All right, he’s not ignoring her, as such, but ever since their father’s death he’d come across as withdrawn and distant in his letters to her, being curt and short in all his responses, and at first she had attributed his behavior to the fact that he was in mourning for their father, she herself hadn’t felt much like writing when first she was informed of the news, and she supposed it had hit her brothers even harder, them being by their father’s sickbed when he passed away. But then more and more time had passed, moon turn after moon turn until more than a year had gone by, and Jon’s attitude towards her had not changed. She had even written Robb about it, and he’d agreed with her in that there was something strange going on with their brother, who was acting even more cold and detached to those around him than it was normal for him, but that he hadn’t been able to decipher the reason.

It’s not like he was acting cruel towards her, or anything, and she still had received a letter from him at least every couple of moons (except just recently, since she hadn’t had any word of him for nearly three moons, little before the announcement of the rebels’ officials surrender, though she isn’t worried, as she will see him soon enough), but they were rather short and almost impersonal, like he’d been trying to avoid a topic that had been bothering him that whole time, and yet was causing him a lot of pain.

He had also stopped calling her ‘little sister’ ever since then, and that is probably the worst part for her, she misses it with all her heart, even if she is only seeing it in smudged ink over faded parchment.

She gives a quick swept with her eyes at her traveling companions, half of who are sleeping inside the wheelhouse, including her own sister and Jeyne Poole. Wylla Manderly is calmly reading some light tome that she’d bought with her, though Arya isn’t sure how she could manage it without getting sick. Beside Wylla is sitting the witty and vivacious Barba Flint of Widow's Watch, who would serve as her lady in waiting after her marriage to Robb, talking in a hushed voice to a starry eyed Beth Cassel. She has the northern look on her, like Jeyne and Arya, but she seemed to be much more comfortable with it than Arya ever could. Maybe no one had ever called her Horseface growing up.

Arya herself hadn’t been called Horseface in some time, not since Lady Wynafryd had overheard Jeyne saying it and had intervened to chastise the older girl, reminding her that someone of her station had no business referring to a Lord Paramount’s daughter with anything but the utmost respect, and then made her apologize to Arya. She had almost felt sorry on Jeyne’s behalf, which looked positively humiliated and angry at having to humble herself so in front of her, but the other part had felt vindicated, and the bullying had stopped completely after that. Even Sansa had stayed clear off sending Arya any unkind remarks, maybe because she didn’t want to risk being reprimanded herself. And Septa Mordane was no longer in their services, being let out shortly after they started their stay at White Harbor, so that was also an improvement.

Truly she and Sansa have not really been at odds ever since they’d received together the news of their father’s passing. She supposes they can never be close, being so utterly different from each other, but she believes two girls couldn’t go through such an experience without having anyone to turn to but one another without reaching some kind of understanding, however uncertain.

On her part, Arya knows her sister couldn’t be happier, currently. Now a flowered maiden of four-and-ten, she had recently been arranged to wed the newly styled Harrold Arryn, formerly Hardyng, who had become so after the death of Lord Jon Arryn’s only son and heir, Robert. Their cousin, Sansa had recalled with a little sadness, though not even that could dampen her enthusiasm at the prospect of being married to Ser Harry, as he had insisted Sansa to call him in one of the lengthy letters he had written her after their betrothal was announced. Her sister will be wed to her fair and gallant and brave knight in two years, or so she’d been promised by Robb. This winter hasn’t shown to be a really heavy one, so it would be possible to make the journey to the Vale.

Heavy winter or not, Arya can still see the snowstorm falling densely from her window inside the wheelhouse. She is northerner, so of course she’s seen snowstorms before, but this one is very different from a simple summer one; everything is completely covered in snow, and you couldn’t see anything as far as a few feet before you.

Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been allowed to ride a top a horse with the rest of the guards and garrison, no matter how good of a horsewoman she told them to be. Lord Manderly had promised Lady Stark that he would return her two precious daughters home without so much as a hair out of place (though, in Arya’s case, that would prove to be a tricky endeavor, no matter the lord’s noble intentions), and by the old gods and the new ones, he would keep his word.

Still, the march towards Winterfell had proven to be a rather slow one, though Arya supposes that to be true with most wedding processions. The Lord Marshal of the Mander had taken great pains in making sure all the wealth and power of House Manderly would be displayed to all the northern lords at their arrival. And there would plenty of them when they reached her home, all reunited to see their young, brave liege take his northern maid to wife.

Finally, after a few hours more of traveling in which she had dozed off every now and then, lulled by the rocking of the carriage and the warm of the furs covering them, she catches sight of the massive castle looming in the distance, and the Winter Town below looking as if described right out of one of Old Nan’s stories, covered all in white and abounding with people that she is able to see even from the distance.

She can’t bring herself to contain her excitement, rousing all the other girls with her delighted cries. Sansa’s initial annoyance swiftly turns into joy when she realizes they are approaching the town. All the residents, old and new, had gathered alongside the King’s Road to watch the Manderly party pass by, shouting her name and Sansa’s and even Wylla’s when they catch a glimpse of them peeking through the window inside the wheelhouse.

Arya feels her heart swell as she sees Winterfell’s imposing walls rise over them, and the great iron gates opening to welcome them in. They go on the bridge and through the outer and inner walls until they’re finally inside the castle. Arya tries to take in all the sights that surround her. It’s her same old home, she knows, but it looks so different with so many people inside of it. Growing up, Arya was used to all the people who lived inside the walls, from servants to courtiers, soldiers, laborers, and everything in between, but now, the place is positively overflowing. Almost every single one of the great houses’ lords of the North are here, and she can even recognize some of their sigils flying above them: Wull, Tallhart, Cerwyn, Liddle, Dustin, Bolton, Karstark, and many, many others. Some, fresh out of the war, had followed Robb from the south, some have made the journey from their keeps to come pledge themselves to her brother and assist his wedding, but all of them had bought their smallfolk along with them, eager to meet their new lord and toast in his honor.

The carriage doesn’t stop once in the main entrance, instead making its way across the courtyard and towards the Inner Castle. Once there, Arya is able to recognize some familiar faces, though none belonging to her family. She sees Harwin alongside others guards standing near the gates of the Great Keep, and waves happily at him, but they pass him through until the carriage goes into a halt in front of the Great Hall.

When her gaze lands on Maester Luwin, huddled in his gray robes that look to be ticker for the cold weather, she feels her eyes swell up with tears. She doesn’t even wait for a groom to open the door of the wheelhouse, instead doing it herself and hopping out before rapidly going to the maester.

“Maester Luwin, Maester Luwin!” she exclaims as she comes barreling into him, wrapping her skinny arms around the maester’s torso.

“Oof, now, calm down, Arya, “he chides softly, separating himself a little from the girl to give her a warm smile. He then sweeps a few locks of rebellious hair out of her face in a fatherly fashion, and that, in Arya’s mind, cements even more the fact that she’s home at last.

“Where’s Mother?” she asks, looking through the crowd in search of a glimpse of her or her brothers.

The maester tenses beside her, like he was just reminded of some very unpleasant business. He doesn’t answer her, because just then they see Sansa and the other girls being helped out of their wheelhouse, and from another, slightly bigger one comes out Lord Manderly and the rest of his family and committee.

“Hello, Maester,” greets Sansa cordially after she reaches them.

He gives the older girl another one of his kind smiles. “Hello, Sansa,” he says. Then he senses Arya’s impatience and briskly clears his throat. “His Lordship, your brother, and your lady Mother, have requested I take you both to one of the private rooms behind the hall, so that you might be reunited with them in a more private manner,” he informs them before turning his attention to Manderly and gives him a respectful bow. “I hope that is agreeable to you, my lord. Lord Poole will escort you and your family to your chambers.”

It is then that Arya notices Vayon Poole letting go of Jeyne with one quick kiss on her forehead. Not far from them, Beth Cassel is being swept off her feet in her father’s arms, while her older cousin, Jory, messes with her hair.

Arya barely manages to swallow down the feelings of jealousy and bitterness that had been born out of witnessing something she will no longer be able to have.

“Of course, of course,” answers the lord, far too amenable to everything at the moment, with the prospect of his granddaughter soon becoming Lady Stark to look forward to. At his side, Lady Leona is demeaning to be brought up to her husband at once.

She follows the maester and her sister into the Great Hall. She realizes then that it’s just as overcrowded as the rest of Winterfell, but this time the place is occupied by all her father’s bannermen—Robb’s, now, she reminds herself with another painful pang in her chest—and their kin. She can’t hope to recognize any of them by name, except maybe by the colors they wear and their sigils. As they pass through the hallway leading to the private rooms, she hears a booming bark of laughter coming near them.

A group of young men are gathered just outside the entrance to the hall. The noise had come from a ridiculously tall and board man, and by the sheer size of him she thinks she can only identify him as an Umber, perhaps one of the Greatjon’s sons.

Another man in the group catches her eyes with his. He’s tall, though not as much as the Umber man, lean and, Arya thinks idly and somewhat mortifyingly, handsome; with dark, wavy hair, a closed cropped bread and intense, piercing eyes whose color she cannot determine from a distance.

The man straightens from his half leaned position against the wall and bows slightly in her direction, still holding her gaze.

She feels blood rise up to her cheeks when she realizes that she had stopped walking so that she could look at him better. It happens that Arya had just recently become aware that men could be attractive creatures, and sometimes felt a faint tilt of attraction to them. But that didn’t mean she had to act like such a stupid little girl, she tells herself, biting hard on her lower lip, and uses the hood of her traveling cloak to cover her flushed face and rushes after Sansa and Maester Luwin, who had advanced further ahead of her.

At last they reached the chamber where her family was awaiting them. No sooner had the maester opened the doors to let the two girls in, had they been engulfed by a very strong embrace.

 _Mother!_ Arya realizes, relishing in the warmth of the arms surrounding her and the hardy, sweet smell she oozes out. Her mother kisses each of her daughters’ heads lovingly before letting go off them to look at them properly.

“My lovely girls,” she mutters, her voice heavy with emotion and Arya is able to take her in for the first time in more than two years. She looks tired, she thinks guilty, draped all in black signaling mourning, with a dark scarf covering her lustrous hair, and worried lines marring her beautiful face that she knows hadn’t been there previously.

She looks over her mother’s shoulder to see the rest of her family. She sees Robb, hovering uncertainty a few paces away from them, fidgeting slightly with his hands, and she’s abruptly taken aback by how much like a man he appears to be now, in his formal clothing and spotting the beginnings of a bread. All of a sudden, Bran is running towards her, until he stumbles into her arms in a fierce hug, that she returns just as strongly. He has grown, too, and now he’s the same height as her, to Arya’s dismay.

She then feels a pair of bony arms hug her by the stomach, and looks down to see baby Rickon, who’s not a baby any more, joining the reunion of his elder siblings shyly, probably too unsure of how to approach the sister that he scarcely remembered.

She shifts her eyes to look at Bran better, and what she sees makes a dreadful feeling settle in the pit of her stomach. He’s been crying, she can tell by the red rimming of his eyes and runny nose. She scans the room, looking for the one member of her family still missing, the one that, if she’s being honest with herself, she’s missed the most. Surely her mother wouldn’t object to Jon being present to receive them after such a long time apart.

“Where’s Jon?” Arya asks out loud to no one in particular, and then hears Bran sniff softly besides her, making the knot in her stomach even tighter, but she ignores it. She watches Robb separate from Sansa, dabbing gently at her now tear stained face with the sleeve of his doublet, before turning completely towards Arya, taking in a deep breath as if he’s bracing himself for something very painful.

He approaches her slowly, and once in front of her goes to his knees at her feet, and she has to see him from above, feeling weird and unsure as to why he would feel compelled to do something of that sort; Robb is now a great lord, and the only ones he should be kneeling to are either the king or the gods, not his little sister, and she tries to keep herself amused by Robb’s ludicrous behavior instead of the thought that’s starting to crawl at the back of her mind, making it difficult for her to breath. She doesn’t want to stare at the grief stained expression with which he’s regarding her, either.

He takes her cool hands between his bigger, warmer ones with the utmost delicacy, like she’s some fragile thing soon to be broken. “Arya, sweetling,” he begins, his voice soft and cracked, “Jon… He’s not—he’s g-gone—”

_No…_

“No!” she howls desperately, trying to wretch free of his brother’s grip on her hands, but Robb’s hold on her tightens, grasping her skinny wrists with his fingers.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries to soothe her, but his demeanor is just as desperate as hers, so he’s rather unsuccessful. “You have to listen to me, Arya!” he implores frantically as the girl continues her struggle to break herself free off his grip, but Robb won’t cede, instead griping her even more ferociously and yanking her forcefully towards him, until she falls to her knees as well against his chest, and that’s when the tears start to fall freely, on both their parts.

“No, No! You _liar_! Where is him?!” She’s in complete hysterics, hitting with all the strength she can muster at her brother’s chest and face, but he won’t let go no matter what she does. She hears her mother call her name softly behind her, and Bran start to cry loudly, but she couldn’t care less. They don’t _understand_ , none of them do, that now Arya will be truly and utterly alone in the world. Because Jon might’ve been angry at her for some reason that she couldn’t fathom, but he still loved her, she knew. He’d still written to her whenever he could, and even through the short, cutting words he’d still told her he loved her and missed her very much.

And now Robb wouldn’t let go of her, even though the only thing she wants to do right now is go get Needle, hidden safely away in one of her old trucks, and curl somewhere secluded with it. The only link she has left of the one person who could always accept her as she was and make her feel wanted.

* * *

They bury the remains of Jon Snow three days after Arya Stark returns to Winterfell. At the end Robb had decided to do it in the lichyard just outside the Winter Town, near the town’s godswood, instead of the one inside the walls beside the First Keep. “Jon wasn’t a servant,” her oldest brother had declared, and that’d been that. Though still, he wouldn’t dare put him in a place such as the crypt.

No one wants to tell her how it's happened, no matter how much she asks, after that first day that she’d been secluded in her own room, she recalls, mostly sleeping, and crying when she couldn’t sleep. She knows what had happened to her father; slain by the man they called the Mountain when he had made a mad dash for King Robert in an attempt to end the conflict early own. And though he had failed, he had managed to escape justice from almost the entirety of the war.

She cannot see why they consider her so weak they think her unable to hear about her own brother’s death. She reckons the reality of the situation is finally starting to sink in. That morning she didn’t wake up believing Jon was still with them, nor with an overwhelming desire to scream at Robb or call him a liar.

Well, she still wants to scream at Robb, but she thinks herself justified. How dare he still plan to hold his wedding after what had happened to Jon? When her father had died, she and Sansa had been made to wear only black and hadn’t been able to leave the Manderly’s keep for nearly six moons. And now she will be expected to wear a pretty dress and make merry at Robb’s wedding in just five days’ time, like nothing is amiss, like there’s not a whole where her heart should be that’s bleeding and bleeding.

When she had confronted Robb about it, he had explained in his most patient voice that they couldn’t delay the ceremony since all the lord vassals were already here, and that some of them would also make their alliances to him and his new wife before leaving for their lands to pass the winter. At that, she had shouted that then it was obvious to her that he didn’t care about Jon, and Robb had promptly ordered her angrily to leave his presence.

No matter how Robb tries to reason it, Arya knows the truth… no one cares about poor, bastard born Jon Snow. The lords would shake their heads sadly and offer their condolences, but for them Jon didn’t represent anything more than a stain in Ned Stark’s otherwise spotless honor, and most of them would concur that, though his life was short, he was very lucky indeed to be allowed to grow up alongside his true born siblings.

In fact, most of them hadn’t even been bothered to come down for the burial, claiming the cold weather was too much to go outside the Inner Castle. But Arya would bet anything that all of them will be there at Winterfell’s godswood, freezing their asses off to watch Robb wed Wylla, and Robb won’t even make a remark on the hypocrisy.

Now she sees Robb a little further ahead of her, shaking with silent sobs as they lower their brother’s casket into the ground. Wylla Manderly is hovering uncertainty near him, holding the hand of a very confused Rickon. Not far behind is Bran, weeping openly in Sansa’s arms, who's trying to comfort him as best she can.

She knows that she should be with her brothers. Out of all the people here, only Robb and Bran seem to be as affected as she feels by Jon’s passing, yet she fears that if she does approach them she would become even more angry than she already feels. Because the truth is that she resents her brothers, for they got to spend time with Jon that she wasn’t allowed to have. Robb fought alongside him for the entirety of the war, and Bran got to see him every now and then while he was squiring for various knights, even if it was just for little spells of time. Meanwhile, Arya had had to make do with sporadic letters that had taken too long to reach their destination.

Her mother puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, telling her is time to say their prayers. She had been surprised when she’d seen her mother earlier that day waiting for her to attend the ceremony, but she had stayed with her throughout the whole thing, and for that she is grateful.

After the prayer, she takes one of the weirwood branches they had gathered for the burial and stalks shakily towards Jon’s grave. She throws the branch alongside the other ones, signaling the gods’ protection for the departed. There, she tries to pray to the gods for her brother’s rest, that he may be with them and their ancestors, watching over the living through the heart trees. Yet it’s such a bizarre concept for her, the idea that Jon is no longer with them, with her, but somewhere else that she can’t hope to follow. Surely that thing in the ground isn’t her brother, that’s just a corpse. Jon was so full of life, he should be here living it with her.

She returns to her mother in silence, head low and trying to fight back the tears that threaten to spill, because she fears she’ll run completely dry if she keeps crying like this. Then, a deep voice calls after her.

“Lady Arya.” She turns around to face the source of the voice, and immediately recognizes the man she’d seen the day she’d returned to Winterfell, when she’d still naively been hoping to be reunited with Jon. He comes to stand before her, and she has to crane up her neck to look at his face, he’s so much taller than her. He then extends a hand in her direction. “You dropped this.”

In his offered hand, she recognizes one of Jon’s letters, which she’d taken with her that morning before leaving her chambers. She’d had a thought to take Needle, but didn’t want to draw any attention to it, fearing it would be taken from her, but she still wanted to have something of Jon’s with her at all times, so she’d tucked one of his letters, one of the older, longer and more open ones, securely betwixt the folds of her warm dress.

Not securely enough, she thinks frantically, as she yanks the letter from the man’s fingers almost violently, clutching it protectively close to her heart and letting out a mournful sob.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lord Karstark,” she hears her mother’s voice say politely, coming to stand beside her and putting a comforting arm around her quivering shoulders.

 _Karstark_ , Arya thinks absentmindedly to herself, putting a name to the man’s face. She vaguely recalls a Harrion Karstark becoming Lord of the Karhold after his father’s passing a year or so ago, and Robb describing him in his letters as a great battle commander and Jon as a capable soldier.

“Of course, Lady Stark,” he responds to her mother, giving her a much more formal version of the bow he’d dedicated to Arya that day in the Great Hall’s hallway. Now that she has him this close, she can note that his eyes are blue-gray in color. She then feels vile rise up in her throat, sick that she would even have a mind to think of that when she’s attending Jon’s burial ceremony.

Karstark turns to Arya somewhat hesitant, bringing one of his hands to scratch at the back of his head in a gesture that seems almost boyish. “I’m really sorry for yer loss, Lady Arya. Jon Snow was a brave, honorable man.”

She doesn’t need him to tell her that, she wants to hiss out, but doesn’t. “Thank you, my lord,” she says instead, voice raspy for disuse.

“We have all suffered great losses, it appears,” continues her mother. “I heard about your lady wife’s passing last year. I don’t believe I was able to pass on my condolences, but your child still remains. A girl, isn’t she?”

Karstark’s face turns solemn, deep sadness passing through his eyes. “Aye, my lady, and at least now I’ll be able to return home to watch her grow.”

He had a wife, she thinks as she watches him give them one final, departing bow before taking his leave. And now he has a child. Maybe she’ll dedicate a prayer for Karstark’s daughter, she muses hazily. A quick prayer to a motherless girl, from a fatherless, brotherless girl.

* * *

**_(After) I'll be here to hold your hand…_ **

Five years have passed since Jon Snow was laid to rest that winter day. Ever since then, Arya has made sure that his tombstone is always clean and has fresh flowers in it. Robb had commissioned a stone sculpture in the form of a snarling wolf to be put over his resting place, white as the snow that oftentimes surrounded it. Though the winter had passed, now it has turned into a less common sight.

Just as they’d said, it had been a very benign winter, lasting only four years instead of the five that had been predicted by the maesters of the Citadel. Mother says they should count it as a blessing, after coming out of such a horrific experience like it was the Lannister’s Rebellion, the last thing the smallfolk of Westeros needed were more hardships.

Arya hasn’t considered herself blessed in such a long time, she contemplates as she jumps off her horse to walk towards her brother’s gravestone, the blue winter roses she had laid over it are still somewhat fresh, she’d put them there only a couple of days ago, but she still picks them out and lays newer ones in their place, making sure the stone is clean by sweeping away all the leaves that had fallen over.

She stays there for a long time, the only sounds she hears coming from Stormy grazing softly behind her, and the town’s people on the distance going about their usual business like any other normal day

Finally, she gathers her thoughts enough to speak: “ _He_ is coming today to get me,” she murmurs softly, despising herself for the hint of bitterness she lets out. “He and all his bloody family. As well as a bunch of other lords… Mother and Robb shall be pleased,” she spats the last part resentfully.

She shouldn’t be, really. Arya had known she will be made to marry since she was little over thirteen years of age, when she had bled for the first time, and talks of a betrothal for her had started circulating within Robb’s council. Gods, she’s probably known even before that. Sansa might think her trick in the head, but Arya was never so innocent as to truly believe she could stay unmarried forever, even while Father still lived. She’d even put some thoughts into her possible prospects.

Cley Cerwyn was the first, most obvious choice; he was of an age with her and had always been friendly with her brothers, she would even get to stay close to her home, so she had thought she wouldn’t be completely opposed to the idea. But shortly after they’d returned from White Harbor, a betrothal had been announced between him and Barba Flint, Wylla’s lady in waiting, so that’d been the end of that fancy. After that she’d thought Robb was considering promising her to the son and heir of Howland Reed, the Lord of Greywater Watch and old friend of her father’s, since he and her brother had been sharing correspondence for a short period of time, but apparently nothing had come out of it.

In the end, it had been Harrion _Bloody_ Karstark.

Just thinking about him, she feels shame flooding all through her, making her want to dig a hole in the earth and stay there until he has no alternative but to turn around and return to the Karhold without her, and Robb can try all he wants to dig her out, she will fight him.

In fact, she _has_ fought numerous times with her brother on the matter, ever since she was informed of the arrangement, but he will not listen. And it doesn’t make a difference to her how many praises he and the rest of her family sing in Karstark’s name. That he’s a good, honorable and brave man, who had steadfastly served her father and then her brother during the war, fighting fearlessly for her family and all the north.

Well, then she reckons that Robb could have thought of another way to reward the man for his loyalty, like gifting him a bloody horse, not his own sister.

But Arya has come to achieve certain level of acceptance of her circumstances. Has come to realize that for women, there are very few pats to follow, save marriage. And she wants a child (or even more than one), that’s one of the few things in her life she’s sure of. Longs for it, even, not as a means to gain some political power or attain some kind of duty to her husband, but because the idea of becoming a mother, of being provider of love and a protection to a small being that had come from within her feels like something that could give her a great modicum of happiness. That child would be hers. Her pack, and that, for her, would mean everything.

It would also be Karstark’s, she thinks with dread. She doesn’t fear the act of procreation itself, or at least that’s not the whole of it. It’s the idea of being vulnerable in front of him, and that she’s not exactly unfamiliar with the feeling. She has been vulnerable in front of him twice before: first as a silly little girl staring at him and blushing like fool, and then as a very sad one crying helplessly for her dead brother.

At the very least he was kind about it, she reminds herself. And she wants to think of him as kind, if nothing else. She knows that Robb would never give her away to a beast, no matter how at odds they’d been for the last few years.

Still, Karstark has yet to prove himself to her in any other regard, and she has no intention of making things easy for him.

“You don’t have to worry about him mistreating me,” she reassure Jon’s tombstone with conviction. “If he does, I’ll use Needle to kill him while he sleeps,” she vows, and then brings three fingers to her lips before brushing them gently over the engraved name of her brother on the cool stone. “I’ll come in a few days to say goodbye, I promise.”

She gets a top Stormy in one swift motion, accommodating the skirts she wears rapidly over her legs before leading the gray mare into a quick gallop through the King’s Road. Stormy already knows the way, so she doesn’t have to do much guiding, and finds that her mind is drifting again to the subject of her impending marriage.

It shall occur in two days, Karstark doesn’t want to delay it much and leave his lands unattended for too long a period, and by that time all the lord bannermen who had issued their intentions to assist will arrive. It will not be a grand affair, not in the way that Robb and Wylla’s had been, or even Sansa’s.

She still remembers her sister’s wedding almost three years ago. They had gone to the Vale, and everything had been so very grand, even while it was still winter and Lord Arryn’s court had been residing at the Gates of the Moon. She had liked him, Lord Arryn, who had insisted she and her siblings call him uncle with a nostalgic look in his kind blue eyes, probably thinking of her father. She also remembers meeting their Aunt Lysa, Mother’s younger sister, who unlike her husband, hadn’t acted kind nor open towards them, and didn’t seem too pleased when they called her anything but Lady Arryn. She can still recall the resentful glares she had sent her mother throughout their whole stay there, and Mother, in turn, had looked vaguely miserable the entire time, except when she had seen Sansa recite her vows before the septon and then be cloaked by her new husband.

Sansa seems to be content enough with her new life in the Vale, even if her husband happens to be, at least in Arya’s opinion, a snobbish idiot, and has an illegitimate child hidden somewhere in the Ironoaks, but there’s an implicit agreement in their family that they shall never touch upon that matter out loud.

At any rate, it won’t matter once Sansa gives Harrold an heir, and she’s soon to do so, reaching the final moons of her pregnancy. Mother will leave to assist her in the birth as soon as Arya herself leaves for the Karhold.

Soon enough, she and Stormy enter swiftly through the gates of the castle and into the courtyard, passing directly along the First Keep, still deep in reconstruction. One of the first things Robb had done with the gold he’d taken from the Lannisters was order repairs for the First Keep and the Broken Tower, though Arya doesn’t know what he plans to do with them once they are done. He also invested in reconstructions for Moat Cailin, and there’s talk he will give the keep to Bran once he returns from serving at the Vale.

She comes to an abrupt halt when she sees Rickon waiting for her in the middle of the path to the stables, looking at her with all the arrogance typical of a twelve year old boy, copper colored hair falling sloppily over his blue eyes, his arms crossed over his chest in a self-sufficient manner, and wearing a fine wool doublet of the purest gray, which she doesn’t understand how he hasn’t managed to ruin yet.

She regards him still a top her horse, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What do you want, Rickon?” she asks as she gets off the horse expertly and lands on her feet, taking the reins with one of her hands.

“Mother knows that you’re not getting ready,” her brother informs her cheerily.

She tries not to look too worried by his words, knowing that’s probably what he wants. “And why is that? Did you tell her?” she inquires instead.

Rickon rolls his eyes. “Nope,” he pops his lips together, “Robb saw you leaving from the balcony of his study.”

“What a rat!” she spits angrily, and then notices someone stiffen besides her brother. It’s Wylen, one of the stable boys, and he looks scandalized by the fact that she just called the Lord of Winterfell ‘a rat’.

“Either way, you better hurry and change,” Rickon suggests. “Heard some of the guards say they saw Karstark banners approaching from the North Gate, so they’ll be here any moment now.”

Arya swallows nervously, taking the reins she’s holding with more force in her clenched first. “Yes, but first I have to take Stormy to the stables.” And then maybe hide there for a few days, she thinks hopefully.

Wylen gives a step forward, giving her a hasty bow. “Don’ worry ‘bout it, milady. I’ll do it for ye.”

She gives a sight but hands him over the rains anyways, muttering her thanks and watching how he takes Stormy away regretfully.

She hears Rickon let out a hearty laugh besides her. “Well, what’re you waitin’ for?” he drawls, “Your beloved is on his way!” he chants mockingly and she has to fight back the urge to launch herself at him and maul him on the dirt until his fine doublet goes brown.

She shoots him a nasty glare instead. “When we’re on the Karhold and I’m the lady, you’ll have to do as _I_ say,” she threatens.

Rickon grins widely at her, starting to walk backwards in the stables’ direction. “Not likely.”

She decides she’ll have her revenge latter. In the meantime she has to hurry. She makes a dash directly to the Great Keep, dodging guards and servants as she takes the stairs towards the family’s quarters. By the time she arrives, she’s breathing rather raggedly, having climbed two steps at a time and pretty quickly, at that. Her room is completely empty, and she spies through the corridor for any signs of her mother. Not seeing any, she closes her door as quietly as possible and then goes to pick up the dress they’d already left lain down over her bed.

She pulls off the dress she’s wearing, of dark green wool and well worn, and puts on the new one, deciding there’s no time to change her undergarments for fresher ones. This dress is also made of wool, but of a much softer kind and new. It’s of a deep Tully-blue color, and the bodice is stitched with white and gray intricate patterns. The collar and long sleeves are lined delicately with red samite. A nice blend betwixt her father and her mother’s houses’ colors, it’s probably one of the most beautiful dresses she owns, only surpassed by the one she’s to wear at her wedding, of course.

She lets out a frustrated string of curses when she realizes she cannot reach the fastenings at the back to tighten in the gown, so instead she decides to concentrate her efforts in changing her footwear.

She’s in the process of tightening the laces of her shiny new boots, far less comfortable than the sturdy old ones she prefers to use, when she hears the door of her room open forcefully.

It’s just Wylla, and she sends a silent thanks to the gods for that. But her goodsister is still directing a very annoyed scowl at her.

“They’re almost here,” she warns in a clipped voice, closing the door behind her.

Arya sends her what she hopes it’s her most winning smile before replying: “I know, I know. Can you help me with this?” She turns her back to her, gathering her long brown hair over one of her shoulders and showing her unfastened dress.

“Gods, Arya, you could have asked a maid to help you with that,” huffs Wylla, but approaches her anyways to start working.

Arya doesn’t want to admit that she hadn’t even thought of that in her haste to get dressed, so she decides to change the topic instead. “Is Robb angry at me?”

“Oh, of course he is,” Wylla affirms, amused. “He had half a mind to send the guards to the town after you. Only stopped because I assured him you would be back on time,” she clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Honestly, Arya, it’s like you wiggle the bone and then it falls to me to tighten the leash.”

Hearing that, Arya can’t help but let out a silly giggle. “Did you just call my brother a dog?” she chuckles. “Because just earlier, I referred to him as a rat.”

That insolent comment earns her a sharp tug at the laces of her gown, making the air leave out her lungs rather abruptly.

“A firm hand every now and then is the secret of every good marriage,” says Wylla with fake sweetness in her voice. “I’m sure you shall soon find out.”

She winces, going tense as her goodsister finishes her work. Wylla’s demeanor instantly becomes gentler, taking Arya hand and using it to turn her around on her feet and smiles reassuringly at her. “He’ll be good to you, I know. Me, your brother, your mother… we wouldn’t stand for anything else.”

Arya gives her a weak smile. “So you have all told me.”

Wylla’s grin brightens, walking directly to Arya’s dressing table and opening a box to look through her very messy collection of jewelry. Finally, she picks up a pair of pearl earrings and a long silver necklace with a pedant in the form of a wolf hanging from the chain. She gives the earrings to Arya, who puts them on quickly, while her goodsister returns to her position behind her to clasp the chain around her neck.

“There,” says Wylla proudly, “you look lovely.”

Arya bites her lip as she looks at herself unsurely upon the long mirror resting at the side of her room. She hasn’t been Arya Horseface in such a long time, but that doesn’t mean she would consider herself _lovely_. Pretty, perhaps; she’d been called that often enough, ever since she reached her teenage years. They say she resembles her late Aunt Lyanna, Father’s younger sister, and she’s always been described as lovely or even beautiful, though in a northern sort of way, they’re quick to add. Arya doesn’t know what that means. She knows she wouldn’t be considered beautiful in the south, not like Sansa is, but watching herself in the mirror, she can’t help but notice a certain level of prettiness in her. The gown she’s wearing accentuates her slender figure, even helping her appear a little bit taller. There’s a faint pink tint over her cheeks, and she believes the colors of the dress makes her large, cat-like gray eyes stand out even more on her narrow ace.

“Now, let’s do something about that hair of yours,” announces Wylla happily, taking a wooden brush from a nearby table. Arya winces again, but for entirely different reasons. Bracing herself for her goodsister’s venture in untangling the many knots of her unruly hair.

Well, she won’t have to worry about her hair for much longer. One of the few aspects of the married life she’s looking forward to is that, as no longer a maid, she will be expected to have her hair tied whenever going in public for her day-to-day activities, either in a braid, or coiled at the back of her head. Sansa, after the first moons of her marriage, had mentioned in one of her letters that she’d taken to wear her hair gathered up in a net, and how the ladies of the Eyrie had started to imitate her not soon after. Arya doesn’t think she could ever wear her hair like her sister. For started, hers is a fine, straight sort of hair, not trick and curly, so it would get dreadfully tangled.

More than usual, she muses woefully, as Wylla gives another painful tug at her scalp. Just as she thinks she can’t take it any longer, she hears some commotion coming from the hallway. The door of her room is opened noisily yet again, but this time, a crying toddler is at the doorway.

“Mama, Serena hit me!” exclaims a very afflicted Neddy Stark, fat tears falling down his apple red cheeks. She hears a wailing sound coming from the corridor, and then a maid enters the room as well, holding in her arms six moons old Serena Stark, who's crying just as loudly as her older brother.

“What happened?” asks Wylla, looking between her two crying children

The maid gives as deep a curtsy as she can manage whilst carrying a fussing babe. “Begging your pardon, milady. ‘Tis just that Lord Neddy wouldn’t let his sister have a toy, and she got enraged and hit him.”

Wylla turns to her son with a disapproving frown, and the child’s lip starts to quiver, signaling he’s to start weeping again.

“It’s all right,” Arya intervenes, sending the young mother a look, “I’ll take care of him. You go calm her down.”

Wylla nods thankfully at her direction, and takes her daughter in her arms, humming softly until her cries quieten. “Hush now, my little love,” she coos, kissing the babe’s blonde hair while she leaves the room, the maid tails silently behind her.

Then it’s just Arya and Neddy. The four year old boy twirls around until he’s facing his aunt, rising his chin in a defiant gesture that reminds Arya vaguely of Rickon… or even Jon.

“It’s not fair!” he protests even before Arya can say anything. “What use does Serena have of a sword? She’s just a baby, and a girl!” He adds the last part like its sacrilege.

Arya raises an eyebrow. “Well now, us girls could find good uses for swords too, I believe,” she says dryly, but then goes to her nephew and picks him up, going to sit at the edge of her bed with the boy in her lap. “But even if that was true, you have to try to play with your sister.”

“But she’s so _boring_ ,” the boy insists, pouting childishly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arya retorts, passing her fingers through her nephew’s soft strawberry blond curls. They will probably turn the same auburn shade as Robb’s once he’s grown out of boyhood. “She’s still your sister. Your _pack_. And you have to be there for her, for she looks up to you.”

“Pack,” Neddy repeats with interest.

“Yes, your pack,” Arya nods sagely. “We Starks are a pack, and we have to look after one another, it’s our duty.”

“Oh, I know what duty is,” Neddy interrupts, blue eyes bright with recognition. “Papa says it’s very important to do one’s duty.”

Arya has to suppress the impulse to roll off her eyes at the mention of her older brother, and the remainder of the situation he’s gotten her into. “Well, your papa is so full of it,” she whispers, low enough so that her nephew won’t hear her.

As if summoned from whichever part of the castle he was previously in, Robb appears at her door, huffing with the fastening of his cloak and straightening a fur trimmed hat. He looks at them somewhat hesitant, taking in the sight of her with his son in her lap.

“They’re arriving, we better hurry,” he tells them.

“Papa!” shouts Neddy when he notices his father’s presence, jumping excitedly to the floor and running directly into his arms.

Robb picks him up easily, balancing him against his hip while he motions Arya to hurry along with a tip of his head. She gets up with a long suffering sight, that earns her a frown from Robb, but she just smiles at him and goes to take a warm gray shawl laying in a chair in front of her dressing table and putting it on around her shoulders, as well as a pair of leather gloves.

She follows Robb and Neddy through the hall and down the stairs, hearing distractedly as the child chatters on to his father while she puts on her gloves.

“And then Auntie Arya said that I have to be good with Serena, because we’re a pack and that’s our duty,” Neddy is saying proudly, puffing out his chest as much as a four year old can while being carried.

“Auntie Arya is right,” Robb agrees, smiling fondly at his son.

Neddy nods frantically with his head. “Yes, and then she also said that you’re full of it, Papa!”

She takes that as her clue to quicken her pace, leaving her brother and nephew behind as she descends down the stairs and out of the Great Hall, where she can see her mother and Rickon already waiting for them at the entrance.

“Oh thank gods you’re here, child,” her mother lets out as soon as she sees Arya, bringing one hand to her chest in a sign of relief.

“Did you doubt it?” Arya asks, offended, but Mother doesn’t respond. Besides them, Rickon lets out a poorly concealed snort, and Arya makes sure to send him a rude gesture with her hand the moment their mother turns her back on them to start walking towards the North Gate.

Soon they’re joined by Robb, Wylla, and their two children, as well as the members of the main household, and together they make their way to the already opened gate, where she can see a few guards of her betrothed’s garrison start to pour in, some carrying banners with the white sunburst on a black field of House Karstark, flapping proudly against the clear spring sky. She also recognizes the brown bull moose with black antlers on orange of House Hornwood, and realizes with a tingle of happiness that Alys is probably part of the committee. She had liked Alys Karstark when she had lived at Winterfell serving as Wylla’s lady in waiting, though she’d only stayed for little over a year before leaving to marry Daryn Hornwood. Still, she always acted kind towards Arya; even when she didn’t have the energy to do much more than stay in her room all day, feeling terribly lonely, Alys had gone and convinced her to go take a ride with her so that Arya could show her the surroundings of the castle, and Arya had agreed, letting herself enjoy the feelings of riding so fast across the woods it felt as if they were flying. Of course, back then neither of them had known that one day Arya would be promised to Alys’s eldest brother.

She sees him entering through the gate, riding a fine black stallion with a smooth trot until it goes into a halt and he dismounts swiftly. A good rider, Arya decides. But then, he’s a northerner, so that’s to be expected.

Arya notices a woman waiting upon a horse a few paces behind, her graying hair pulled back into a severe looking bun, and a little girl sitting in front of her. Karstark approaches them, taking the girl in his arms and depositing her carefully on the ground, while the rest of the newcomers start to dismount their saddles as well.

That girl must be his daughter, she thinks with picking interest. Jocelyn Karstark looks older than her six years of age, Arya decides as she sees her approaching by the hand with the gray-haired woman, big brown eyes taking in all her new surroundings with wonderment. She recalls that her mother was an Umber, so that explains the tall height of the girl.

First, Karstark goes to Robb, falling to one knee before him and Wylla. “My liege,” he says in that deep northern brogue she remembers.

“Arise, Lord Karstark, and be welcome to Winterfell once again,” Robb tells him in his best Robb the Lord voice. Karstark obeys, rising to his feet and then turning to Wylla, taking her offered hand and kissing it respectfully with a muttered ‘Lady Stark’ before turning to her mother to kiss her hand as well. Mother looks very pleased with Karstark’s good manners, no doubt congratulating herself for the fine match she’s arranged for her second daughter.

Finally, its Arya’s turn, and she’s a little taken aback by the fact that he hasn’t changed that much since last she saw him five years ago. His face is long, as is his slightly crooked nose. He still wears his bread close cropped, and his dark-brown hair reaches his shoulders, tied back in low tail. The feature she most remembers about him are his striking blue-gray eyes, now landed on her with an unreadable glint in them.

She supposes people are not expected to change as much from one-and-twenty to six-and-twenty, as they do from two-and-ten to seven-and-ten. And she knows she’s changed, no longer a little girl but a woman, flowered and deemed old enough to become a bride. The question is whether or not he still considers her that same girl. Arya doesn’t think she could stand being dismissed and condescended like she were a child. She doesn’t except love from him, like the kind her own parents had shared between them, but she’ll make sure he gives her the respect and honesty she’s due as his wife.

He doesn’t take her hand to kiss, mayhaps because she isn’t offering it, so he bows low to her and straightens quickly. “Lady Arya, it’s good to see you again,” he tells her coolly, his expression remaining a calm and polite mask.

She smiles wanly, lips pressed together, and give him a swallow, stiff curtsy, taking the edges of her skirts tightly in her hands and widening them a little as she lowers herself, thankful that she’s slightly better at it now. She makes sure not to break their eye contact as she does so.

“Likewise, Lord Karstark,” she answers, her voice sounding wooden in her own ears. “I hope your journey went by smoothly.”

“It did, thank you, my lady,” he responds pleasantly. Arya senses rather than sees the reproachful glare her mother is sending her way, and takes a breath through her nose as discreetly as she can before extending her hand to him, which he takes gracefully in his own, as if he was waiting for it all along, and brings her knuckles to his lips. She feels the press of his mouth against her gloved fingers, and she’s sure to be blushing now. Again, just like when she was twelve.

He lets go of her, and immediately she brings her hand down, clasping it tightly with the other. She hears distantly how Wylla offers their guests the customary bread and salt, and the day continues.

* * *

Later on, they’re all sitting upon the high table inside the Great Hall, taking their dinner. She between her mother and younger brother, Karstark a few seats away, at Robb’s right side, so she doesn’t have much chance to look at him. Which is good, she tells herself.

She picks idly at her pigeon pie, not feeling particularly hungry, and listens absently to Wylla’s newest reports from King’s Landing. Apparently the young Hand of the King, Lord Renly Baratheon, has evaded yet again any talks of arranging a marriage for him. Perhaps he plans to make his late brother’s daughter, the Lady Shireen Baratheon, his heir. It wouldn’t be unheard of. Besides, there’s not so much pressure on him to produce an issue anymore, not after Queen Margaery had given the king his long awaited black-haired and blue-eyed heir.

She hears Rickon let out a gulp besides her. He doesn’t have the best table manners, her youngest brother, despite Mother’s best efforts. Out of all her siblings, she thinks she’s the most like Rickon, both stubborn, loud and opinionated in a family full of mild tempered individuals. She knows he’s aware of it, too; that he’s not as dutiful as Robb, nor as graceful as Sansa, nor as so unbelievably likable that he can get away with whatever he damn well pleases, like Bran. But he also has an easier time with his willful nature than Arya ever did, because he is a boy, and so his wild ways are regarded as a sort of charming quirk that he’ll grow out of eventually, while hers have always been met with quite scorn and disapproval.

At any rate, it will soon fall to Karstark to try to make him into a man, and Arya thinks it will be a rather entertaining thing to watch unfold, as Rickon has never been one to go down without a fight.

It will also be one less burden out of Robb’s shoulders, and that thought makes her feel guilty. She knows it was difficult for him, losing Father and then having to fight a war on his name, all while he still hadn’t quite reached manhood himself, only to return home to support his grieving mother and help her rise his young siblings.

Maybe it will be a good opportunity for him and Wylla, once they’re all gone, to connect in a way that they have never quite managed before. She knows they care for each other, but it ought to be difficult to build a marriage from scratch whilst having to take care of so many other people’s needs. And her goodsister bore it without uttering nay a complaint; she now deserves to have her husband for herself and her children. It is that thought that makes her feel better about the idea of entering this marriage.

Her attention shifts to her betrothed’s daughter, sitting across her, when Mother makes a comment on the pretty blue ribbon she wears upon her curly hair, so dark a brown it looks almost black.

“Thank you, my lady,” says the girl, smiling shyly, and conscious of the fact that she’s now the center of attention. “It’s my favorite—well,” she adds hurriedly, “I had another one that was pink, but it got teared accidentally and there haven’t been new ones at the tailor’s shop back home.”

“Perhaps we can go tomorrow to look for one at the Winter Town,” Arya chimes in, giving a little sip to her cup of Arbor red.

Little Jocelyn’s eyes go big as sauces, looking delighted at Arya’s offering. “Oh yes, I would love to!” Then she stops, turning her gaze towards her father. “That is, if Da approves—I mean, Father,” she corrects, her cheeks turning a dusty pink color.

Arya inclines herself over the table to look at Karstark, but he doesn’t look upset by his daughter’s lack of formality while addressing him. Instead, he’s regarding her with a small, soft smile. It’s the first time she’s seen him smile, she realizes abruptly, before his blue-gray eyes turn to her.

“Of course,” he says evenly, “if Lady Arya is alright with it.”

She purses her lips, trying not to read too much into their so far tense interactions. “I did offer, didn’t I?” she retorts, before falling back into her chair.

Alys Hornwood is sitting beside Jocelyn, and Arya watches her pat her niece gently in the head. “Then mayhaps I’ll join in with you, Jocey,” she declares, sending Arya a playful wink. “I have a mind to find something pretty for myself.”

* * *

That night, Arya sits alone in her bed, her back resting against the headboard, and Needle laying over her stretched legs.

The day hadn’t gone as bad as she’d feared, but she wouldn’t call it a success, either. Now she only has the wedding to look forward to, and then the rest of their lives.

She passes her fingers carefully through the length of Needle, from the hilt and across the thin steel until she reaches the pointy tip. _‘Stick ‘em with the pointy end’_ she can still recall Jon’s words, his warm hand mussing her hair. She also remembers how sure he’d been that they would be reunited, telling her to practice as much as she could with the sword, so that she would impress him upon his return. Then there had also been Father, picking her in his arms in the courtyard, kissing her forehead lovingly and asking her to be good.

That had been the last time she’d seen both of them, she thinks, swallowing down the tears threatening to spill.

Grief, Arya has come to realize, never really goes away. It stays with her, as a silent, steadfast companion that she can become used to, but never really get comfortable with, because she knows that they’re always there, eating away at a part of her, the part where her heart is, wounding it and making it bleed, yet no one else but her can see it.

She’d told herself before that she doesn’t care if Harrion Karstark never gets to love her, but now she thinks that even if she did, he shan't be able to. For who could ever grow to love a girl with an eaten, bleeding heart?

* * *

> _298, Longtable, the Reach,_
> 
> _Dear little sister,_
> 
> _First of all, you can now stop feeling so left behind, because, just like Bran, we aren’t seeing any true battles any time soon. At least, that’s what they’re saying, but there are also whispers that Tywin Lannister is planning something, and I wouldn’t doubt it, after what I’ve heard he is capable of. Still, retaking House Merryweather’s keep was surprisingly easy, and now that Lord Merryweather has bent the knee and rejoined his forces with King Robert’s, he is eager to start moving again. He wants to continue advancing straight to the west, whilst Father and Lord Arryn insist it’s better that we divide our forces. Surround them before they can surround us. If that comes to pass, our army will be moving northwest._
> 
> _Whatever the decision they take is, I just hope to leave this place. I don’t feel too comfortable being so close Gregor Clegane’s lands._
> 
> _Now respecting your news, I hope you have fun with your time at White Harbor, I really do. Did you know Robb blushes like a maid anytime he receives a letter from Wylla? It’s pretty amusing to watch. You make sure to tell her every embarrassing detail you can remember of him, and then write me all about it._
> 
> _Well, little sister, I have to go now, Father is calling for us. Say hello to Sansa from me._
> 
> _I miss you; you know that already, always._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Jon._


	2. To Robb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Before you start reading I just want to say that I made some grammar corrections in the previous chapter if you wanna check it out. 
> 
> Never publish anything without thoughtfully proofread first!

> _300, White Harbor,_
> 
> _Dear Robb,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you're safe and that there is no danger of battle anytime soon._
> 
> _We are well, all of us. I believe Sansa might have already told you in her last letter, but we are officially leaving the period of mourning. Lady Leona says it's now appropriate for us to go to the city sometimes, or go to take a ride if we want to, but that we mustn't appear to be enjoying it too much. As if Sansa and I go around being merry and happy. I haven’t enjoyed many things since we were informed about father, and I don’t think Sansa has either._
> 
> _At least you try to write as much as you can to us and keep us informed, which I’m truly grateful for._
> 
> _There’s not too much to mention, though, since we haven’t been able to leave the keep. Wylla has been teaching me how to make flower crowns. She’s really good at it, and doesn’t get angry if I mess up._
> 
> _Speaking of angry, do you know if Jon is angry about something? Or upset? He barely has written a couple of lines to me in his letters. I know he’s sad because of father, but he’s not alone in it, he needs to know that._
> 
> _Could you please ask him about it? I’m starting to get worried._
> 
> _Please be safe, Robb._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Arya._
> 
> * * *

**_(One) When she was just a girl, she expected the world…_ **

True to her word, once comes morning, Arya prepares to take Jocelyn Karstark to get her pretty new ribbon in town. She even gets up earlier than necessary, though that might also have to do with the fact that she had a rather restless sleep, tossing and turning in her bed the whole night, but that’s beside the point.

She has time to dress by herself, choosing a far simpler gown then the one she was made to wear the day before, of a muted blue color and a leather belt around her waist, as well as her warm cloak. She tells herself that there’s no need to keep pretending before her future husband, better she sees her as she actually is so that he knows what he’s to expect from the beginning. And Arya has never been good at make believe games.

By the time she’s making her way down the stairs, her stomach is growling, demanding food after not having received any the night before. Yet she doesn’t fancy the idea of breaking her fast in the Great Hall with her family and their guests, knowing that there’s a strong possibility of Karstark being there. She knows it’s probably absurd on her part, but she will try to spend as little time with him as possible, until she can’t avoid it any longer.

So instead, she makes for the kitchens, bypassing the main doors of the Great Hall and using the entrance of the back.

When she enters the kitchens, there are several people there, hard in the task of preparing the food and carrying it all the way to the hall. They’re likely to be working on the feast for tomorrow as well, she thinks, seeing the state of disarray the usually orderly place is in. Many and more ingredients for different types of dishes being readied for preparation.

Gage, the head cook, stops his stirring of an enormous searing pot with a big, rusty spoon to look questioningly at her. “Lady Arya, what’re ye doin’ here?”

She shoots the cook as cheerful a smile as she can manage before responding, “I came get some food, of course.”

This isn’t such an unusual behavior on her part. She likes to take her meals down the kitchens whenever she has the chance, sitting at the tables with all the servants and listening to them chattering on around her. Mother doesn’t exactly approve of her actions, but as long as she doesn’t get in the way, there’s no harm, she’s sure.

The problem is that right now she is getting in the way, she realizes, noting the slightly annoyed looks the staff is sending her way, though they’re trying to hide their displeasure as best they can, and that makes her feel even worse. So set is she in evade all interactions with her betrothed, she’s being inconsiderate to all those working hard to make sure her wedding even happens.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, biting her lower lip worriedly, “I’ll just leave, I—I just… came for an apple.”

And an apple she takes with her, opting instead to take it with her outside and sit on one of the side benches, chewing thoughtfully as she watches people going in and out of the Great Hall, taking trays and plates back to the kitchens. Turnip, Gage’s young son, approaches her whilst carrying a couple of buckets full of water.

“Wouldn’ ye like something else to eat, milady?” he asks her, lowering the buckets to the ground.

“Oh, no. I’m quite alright, thank you,” she tells him.

“If ye say so,” he says with a grin, while he also watches all the people on the hall and courtyard. “Reckon we hadn’t been this crowded since yer lord brother was wed.”

And it’s about to get worse, Arya thinks. Once the Umbers, Manderlys, Cerwyns and Mormonts all arrive. “I know, it must be so troublesome to you all,” she mutters, looking down at her half-finished apple.

Turnip lets out a light snicker. “Well, Pa might be a little cranky ‘bout it, aye, but I think he’s happy for ye an’ yer marriage, milady. We all are.”

 _Happy_. They’re happy for her while she’s here hiding like a scared child. How is that supposed to make her feel?

She thanks him for his kind words, and then he’s back to the kitchens. Arya is left with her apple and her feelings of inadequacy, and decides to concentrate on the former so as to not brood on the later. Well, there are some things in life one simply can’t avoid forever, she reasons to herself, throwing the apple bone to one of the dogs outside the kitchens and making her way into the Great Hall. Arya Stark is no coward. At least—she’s not for too long a period of time.

The hall is already full when she arrives, people breaking their fast leisurely and talking between themselves. She spots Jocelyn’s dark-brown haired head sitting a few tables away from her father, who is occupied discussing something with Robb, Wylla, and his younger brother Eddard. That fact makes a rush of relief flood through her, and she makes sure to walk towards the little girl as silently as she can, seated by the side of her governess, who is watching her young charge eat her sweetened oatmeal as she sips primly at a cup of tea. She can also see Alys in the same table as her nice, making small talk to the child, though she doesn’t seem to be eating anything herself.

Jocelyn’s eyes widen when she notices Arya approaching them. She breaks into a big, open-mouthed smile, which reveals to Arya that she’s already missing a couple of teeth. “Look, Aunt Alys, Mistress Marsh! It’s Lady Arya!” the girl points to her companions excitedly. The governess quickly rises to give Arya a respectful yet terse curtesy.

Erena Marsh had been presented to Arya the day before, along with all the other members of her betrothed’s household who had accompanied him from the Karhold, and of course his kin. She is a member of House Marsh, vassals of the Karstarks; an unmarried woman or maybe a widow, Arya doesn’t know, but she knows the woman is charged with overseeing all the aspects of little Jocelyn upbringing and education and report conscientiously to Lord Karstark any and all progress shown by his daughter.

“Arya will suffice, I told you yesterday,” is Arya’s greeting to the girl, giving her a friendly smile. “Are you ready to go?”

Jocelyn nods enthusiastically and then looks at her half-finished bowl with frustration, promptly deciding to get a brimming spoonful of her food and shoving it all inside her mouth at once.

“Lady Jocelyn,” Mistress Marsh admonishes with a scowl, “it is unbecoming of a lady to stuff her mouth with food.”

Jocelyn’s happy demeanor falls immediately, and she covers her face with one of her hands to try to swallow discreetly. “Sorry, mistress,” she apologizes dutifully once she has passed down the food, turning her huge eyes to Arya. “Would you mind waiting until I finish, La—Arya?” she asks hopefully.

“Of course not,” Arya replies, smiling kindly at the little girl as she takes a seat besides Alys.

“Don’t you want something to eat yourself?” questions Alys with a smirk.

“Oh no, I already ate,” Arya declines, though she’s eyeing one of the displayed fresh pears from the glass garden, considering whether or not to take it, when she hears someone approaching them from behind.

“Father!” cries Jocelyn, who has finally finished her bowl of oatmeal. She jumps out of her chair and goes around the table, Arya following her with her eyes until the child gets to her father. He receives her with open arms, and passes his hand softly through his daughter’s hair as she buries her face in his stomach. “I’m going with Aunt Alys and Lady Arya to the town,” she gushes eagerly.

A small smile forms in Karstark’s lips, “I know, dear one,” then he looks over at Arya, and gives her a half bow, as his child’s arms are still surrounding his waist. “Lady Arya,” he greets with that same cordial, distant tone he always uses with her.

Arya goes to her feet and gives a hasty curtsy, forcing herself to send him a smile that will not appear overly awkward. “Lord Karstark, good day,” she greets back.

“Shall we go?” he says mildly, motioning with his head to the door’s direction and making Arya waver in her spot.

“You’re coming?” The question comes from Alys, for which Arya is grateful, because she feels she would have been compelled to ask him the exact same thing but with an over exaggerated shout instead of a calm voice.

“Only to help you with the horses,” Karstark replies, engulfing his daughter’s small hand in one of his large ones and leading her to the exit of the hall. Arya gives in all her energy to thank the gods for their—temporary— mercy to her and follows the three Karstarks to the courtyard. They wait for the horses to be bought there, and Arya cannot help but hear brother and sister discuss something in rapid voices, being so near them.

“Just remember to be back in a couple of hours, Alys. They’ll be arriving by then,” Karstark says to his sister, seriousness in his expression.

Alys rolls her eyes in annoyance, not unlike how Arya is prone to do with her own brothers. “Honestly, Harry, it’s not as if the Greatjon will challenge you into single combat if Jocey is not here when he arrives.”

People call Harrion Karstark simply ‘Harry’ most of the time. The irony is not lost to Arya, whose own sister had also married a Harry; though the personalities of both men couldn’t be further apart, she reckons. It feels strange to hear friendly, brash Alys refer to her cold and stoic brother with such and endearment. But it is perhaps just with Arya that he behaves cold and stoic, while being warm and loving to everybody else. It must be it, for she can’t imagine a girl as sensitive as Jocelyn loving her father so fully if he was some heartless monster. Still, she’s not sure how to feel with the thought of only knowing one side of him, the only one he’s been willing to show her so far.

On the other hand, Arya hasn’t precisely been much open with him either, so it might be that she deserves his wariness.

She’s so set on her own thoughts that she doesn’t catch anything else that the siblings say, and soon enough a stable servant has bought their mounts out for them.

Arya quickly hauls herself a top Stormy, taking the reins tightly into her firsts, and watches how Karstark hoists Jocelyn up into the horse in which Alys is already straddle in, settling the girl in front his sister, who puts an arm around her securely.

After that, Karstark reaches for a small purse tied to his belt, and Arya feels hot anger boiling up within her.

“Lord Karstark!” she calls down at him from aloft her mare, doing little to cover the irritation in her voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He doubles down to face her, his eyes meeting hers for a long, tense moment before a very clear and annoyed scowl forms in his face, which is an improvement from the blank expressions he usually regards her with.

“Getting some coin for my child’s expenses,” he explains in a tone that suggests that Arya is a very simple-minded person who can’t grasp the most understandable of concepts.

“Pray not offend me in that manner,” Arya spits angrily, “I invited your daughter today, so _I_ will be the one paying for anything she may want.”

The continue looking at one another, neither wanting to break their eye contact and, thus, end their reticent battle of wills. Arya doesn’t know how she’s managed to start a—albeit silent—fight with this man when she’s yet to maintain a full conversation with him, but she is unwilling to back down, not in this nor in any future fights they might find themselves having.

Thankfully for her, Karstark is the one to back down first, and he retreats his hand from his purse, giving her a curt nod before averting his gaze from hers.

She’s still thinking of that after they depart for the town, and then throughout all their tour in the shops and their purchases

* * *

Truly, by the end of their little excursion, Arya can freely admit that she’s had fun with Alys and her future stepdaughter, trekking and giggling from shop-window to shop-window until they enter the tailor’s, and come out with two new and soft ribbons of bright pink and white colors that the child looks at as if they are made of the most costly of Myrish laces, and not simple dyed cotton.

“The white one will look like the colors of house Karstark when you put it against your hair, Jocey,” Alys had said to her niece, who’d become even more excited at that prospect.

When Arya looks at the girl, she still can’t quite believe that, starting tomorrow, Jocelyn (or Jocey, as she’s started to call her even inside her head), will become her daughter, at least by law. Isn’t that what she wanted? Having a child to care for? And she shall accomplish it by simply entering a marriage, jumping over all the subsequent steps. But she knows it will not be simple at all, for her or for the young girl, even if little Jocey has yet to make any mention on the subject, and Arya tries her hardest to not make it uncomfortable by bringing out the topic herself. She’s yet to know the girl’s feelings on the whole matter, though she won’t deny it makes her curious.

“Thank you for buying me a second ribbon, it’s so pretty,” says Jocey to Arya, examining her gift with fascination.

“Don’t fret about it, sweetling, I’m glad you like it,” Arya assures her with a smile. They are just crossing the bakery when Alys, walking in front of them, goes to an abrupt halt.

Arya looks at her weirdly, for Alys is starting to sniff at the air as if she were a hound in search of some delicious treat. “What is that? It smells _divine_ ,” she inhales deeply through her nose, she then turns herself in the direction of the bakery and her eyes open up in wonder. “Are those honeyed biscuits?”

“I think so,” Arya answers, trying to see into the bakery shop’s window above the crowd that is starting to form in front of it, probably drawn in by the same smell as Alys.

Alys spins around to face Arya, clapping her hands together and smiling giddily. “I need to get some of those. Wait for me here.” She doesn’t stay for a response, already making her way to the crowd. Some of the people letting her pass when they realize she’s a high-born lady, but Alys just thanks them good naturedly as she enters the shop.

Arya considers perhaps trying to follow her friend, but there’s really too many people (and just for some bread, which is ridiculous, in her opinion), so she decides they’ll wait for Alys in one of the benches at the side of the road, where she sits alongside Jocey.

They are close to the lichyard, she knows because she’s learned the path to it from all directions of the Winter Town. She can almost feel it in her bones when she’s close to Jon, she reckons, even if it also makes her feel terribly sad. So she opts to ignore it and focus on the girl beside her instead.

She smiles at Jocelyn kindly. “So you did like your first visit to a town, hmm?”

Arya sometimes marvels at how easy it is for children to be enchanted by every new thing they happened to encounter, and wonders if she ever was like that herself. She supposes she was, before the war, she remembers how impressed she’d been when first they had arrived at White Harbor, and that had been a real bustling city, just like the port of Gulltown when she’d traveled to the Vale, and not a now half empty little town. Still, she can imagine that, for a girl like Jocey, who has only ever known the small fishing village adjacent to her family’s keep, this must be quite the thrilling experience.

“Oh, I loved it!” Jocey affirms, still drinking in everything around her. “Especially the shops!”

“Yes, the shops are the best part,” Arya agrees. “When I was your age I used to come here all the time to buy all kinds of things. And it would be so much fun, because my siblings and mother would accompany me.”

She notices how, at the mention of Arya’s mother, Jocey mood seems to fall a little, turning more serious.

“Can I ask you something, Arya?” Jocey asks as she looks at the ground, her feet kicking back and forth nervously.

“Of course,” Arya says quickly, inclining herself a little over the bench so that the girl knows she’s got her full attention.

“Will you become my new mother?”

The question takes Arya completely by surprise, not because she wasn’t expecting it to come up eventually, but because she hadn’t thought it would come so soon, and in such a public place. But Jocey still deserves a good response from her. If only she had one.

“I don’t know,” it’s all Arya can come up with after several moments of consideration, but at least it’s the truth. “Do you want me to?”

Jocey takes her own time to mull over her answer, looking intently at her feet that have started kicking more rapidly.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers, sincerely.

“Well, you don’t have to know,” Arya tells her, taking one of her companion’s hands between her own. “We can figure it out together, with time.” Jocey stops looking at the ground and shifts her gaze to Arya, eyes full of relief. “You needn’t call me Mother, but I will do my best to care for you as a mother would, and I hope that we might become friends, too.”

Jocey gives her a tentative smile, and intertwines their fingers together. “Yes, we can be friends,” she says excitedly. “I don’t have a lot of friends—Well,” she cuts herself, and then starts to speak so quickly Arya struggles to follow, “there’s Mistress Marsh, of course, and my aunts and uncles. And Great-grandmother… oh! And Da—Will you also be Da’s friend, Arya? I think he would like that.”

The last part of the girl’s ramble makes Arya tense a little, but she tries not to show it. She notices Alys walking towards them with a few warm looking buns in her arms, so she turns back to Jocey and smiles as genuinely as she can.

“I would like it, too,” she says, surprising herself by actually meaning it, even if a part of her is too afraid to even see it as a possibility.

* * *

Once they get back to Winterfell, it’s obvious that Alys didn’t keep her promise to her brother about returning before the Umbers’ arrival, because they are already there, as well as the committee Lord Manderly had sent, though they’d already seen them pass through the King’s Road when they’d still been in town, and that’s when they’d decided to head for the horses.

Now they walk to the crowd of new guests that has formed around the Inner Castle, Jocey by the hand of her aunt while she clutches her two ribbons in her little first, looking unsure at all the new people ahead of her.

When Harry Karstark sees them, he dashes over to them. The Greatjon on his heels, and Arya can see the big grin in the older man’s face even behind his beard, that seems to become bushier every time Arya sees him.

“Gods, is that her, Harry?” he says to Karstark, who has reached his daughter, taking her out of his sister’s hold, and is picking her up to bring her over to the massive, imposing man.

“Say hello to your grandfather, Jocey” Karstark encourages the girl in his arms, who is partially hiding her face between her father’s neck and peeking at her grandfather timidly. She probably hasn’t seen him in years.

The Greatjon is looking at his granddaughter with slightly damp eyes, his smile broadening. “She’s grown so much since last I saw her. Looks so much like my Sarra,” he says, full of pride. “Jon, Cregard! Ye come here to see her!” he bellows to his sons behind him.

Meanwhile, Arya starts to scour the rest of the new comers, looking for other familiar faces, until her eyes land on her family gathered near the entrance of the Great Keep, and a very especial head full of brownish-red hair.

“Bran!” she cries, taking off in a run to her brother, who, upon hearing her call, turns around from his conversation with their mother and opens his arms widely to receive her in them, picking her clean off the ground and swinging her a few times in a circle, her skirts swirling behind her, while they both laugh happily. The fact that he can now carry Arya that easily is proof enough of how much he’s grown since she saw him, almost two years ago. And that’s demonstrated even further when he sets her back on her feet and she realizes that he’s now almost a full head taller than her.

“I didn’t see you passing through the town!” she tells him, trying to drink him all in. Not only has he grown taller and stronger, but, just having reached his sixteenth nameday recently, he’s lost all that inelegance prevalent of boyhood and now bores himself more confident and sure. He also no longer looks awkward and engulfed wearing a light chainmail under his tunic, and appears more akin to a soldier or a hedge knight, instead of her little brother.

Bran lets out that genuine and infectious laugh of his that she’s missed so much. “Well, to you ought to be more observant, sister,” he winks at her playfully.

“He was telling us about Sansa,” Rickon interrupts, eager not to lose the attention of his big brother. They have all missed him terribly.

“And how is she?” Arya asks, linking her arm with Bran’s as she and her brothers turn back to their mother.

“Well, you know, she’s very…” and he trails off, making a gesture with his unoccupied hand as if he were holding something very big between his palm and belly.

That earns him a light, exasperated reprimand from Mother, but it loses all firmness when her second son sends her a toothy grin.

It is just then that Arya notices another person from her childhood that she’s missed exceedingly: Wynafryd Manderly is by Wylla’s side, who is holding little Serena while the older Manderly sister coos over her as if she were the most awe inspiring babe in the whole world. Her new husband, Robin Flint, Barba’s older brother, is standing a few paces behind her and making silly faces at a very amused Neddy.

Arya lets go of Bran and rushes to her, and Wynafryd welcomes her in a very warm embrace, that makes Arya remember herself as a young girl, scared and far from home, and the barely older girl who had done her best to make her feel safe and happy, like a mother would, when Arya’s own had been miles away fighting a war from within the walls of a castle.

Soon enough Wylla is calling for everybody to follow her into the Great Hall, and Arya catches sight of Karstark, now surrounded by all the Umber men that make him look almost small by comparison, start to make for the building with his daughter still in his arms. Jocey is talking in that speedy way of hers to her father, and showing him enthusiastically the two ribbons Arya had gifted her earlier.

Karstark starts to look around the place while his child continues talking, until his eyes meet hers for the second time that day, but whereas before it had felt as if the man was measuring her or challenging her with a single look, now he seems almost confused by her, as if trying to discern her, but in what regard, Arya cannot fathom.

This time, it’s her who averts her eyes, worrying on her lower lip as she chooses to rather look for her newly returned brother. But Bran is not going into the Great Hall, instead heading outside of the Inner Castle.

Well, Arya muses, whenever he’s going, it’s not going to be anywhere near Karstark, so she might as well follow.

“Wait for me!” she shouts after her brother until she catches up to him in the middle of the courtyard, where he’s waiting for her. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“To pray,” Bran says simply.

“Right now?” Arya questions, thinking her brother would rather go inside to get warm and change, or eat something, or really, anything but this.

“It’s as good a time as any, I’d wager,” he laughs as they enter the godswood, eerie and empty but from them and all the crows mingling on the branches of the trees.

Bran stalks directly to the heart tree, kneeling respectfully before it and bowing his head in solemn prayer. Arya is not sure what to do, so she decides to imitate him and kneels by his side, feeling how her skirts start to dampen slightly under the muggy grass under her. She stares intently at the carved red eyes of the weirwood, and thinks that mayhaps she should pray, too, for tomorrow she will find herself in this exact same spot, but at her side won’t be her younger brother, but Harrion Karstark, and together they will silently petition the gods for a good marriage. At least, that’s what they ought to do, and they say it is impossible to lie in front of a heart tree. So now she prays to the gods to give her strength for tomorrow, to help her be true in her vows, and for Karstark to be so as well.

Her brother had stopped with his own prayers, and now is looking at her curiously; it might be that he too is aware of Arya’s scrape, and that she is thinking about her impending wedding. Brandon Stark has always been compassionate like that.

“Thank you for keeping me some company,” he murmurs, shifting his eyes again to the imposing weirwood.

“It was just so I could tell you are not a man of your word,” Arya says with a laugh. “If I recall correctly, in your last letter you wrote that the first thing you would do after coming back will be to pay a visit to Old Nan.”

Bran grins slightly. “Yes, but I reckon she must be asleep right about now.”

“She sleeps most of the time nowadays,” she concedes. It is normal for a woman of her advanced age, or so Maester Luwin says, but it’s still a sad though that she might not remain with them for much longer.

“But I wanted to come see my gods, too. They are difficult to find in the south,” her brother continues, stretching one of his arms until he reaches the pale wood of the weirwood, tracing the outlines of the red mouth reverently with his gloved fingertips.

“Your gods?” Arya can’t help but ask with surprise in her voice. There’d been talk about Bran being turned into a knight for a long time now, especially when he served at the Vale and with Uncle Edmure at the Riverlands. She knows that’s something her brother had always desired, ever since they were children. And she also knows that to get it he will also have to give up on something that for Bran has always been really important: the old gods. Unless…

“I won’t accept the knighthood,” Bran let’s out simply, as if I was the most natural decision in the world for him. “I already informed Uncle Jon about it. And, of course, I told Robb as well.”

“Uncle Edmure shall not be pleased.” It’s the only thing she can think of saying, though it’s the truth. In receiving Moat Calin, he will be so near the borders with the Riverlands (just behind the Neck), that it is only natural for their uncle to think that he can arrange a match between his nephew and one of his bannermen’s daughters. She knows the river lords are not pleased that Edmure Tully had taken so long to choose a wife, and it had ended up being a girl from the Reach, at that. It seems only natural for him to now try to appease his angry lords by offering the hand of his nephew instead.

Of course, Bran is simply a second son, who will be inheriting some half reconstructed ancient stronghold but no fortune attached to it. It is perhaps the notion of a knighthood that could sway the river lords to their uncle’s side. That and the agreement on Robb's part.

But will Robb even allow such a thing? Will Bran? She supposes he will have as much a say in choosing his own future as the rest of his older siblings had, including her.

“It doesn’t matter what Uncle Edmure thinks, I don’t need to be a knight to do my duty,” her brother says firmly, and then his expression turns so grim and distant he reminds her of their father. “Most of the knights I met down south weren’t exactly honoring their king and protecting the innocent.”

Arya lets out a humorless snort. “Most men honor very little in their lives, if at all.”

Bran turns to face her fully, and he sees a little crisped by her words. “That it’s unfair, Arya, and you know it” he says tersely and clearly restraining himself from raising his voice. “I will still be doing my duty when I wed, none shall question that.”

“By marrying whomever Uncle Edmure and Robb will you to, like some Vance or a Frey?” she asks mockingly.

Bran doesn’t fall for the bait. “If that’s how I’ll honor my house and my king, then yes,” he says simply. “Robb already did so in the battlefield. And Father and Jon, they died—“

“Yes, they died!” she interrupts him with an angry hiss. “But they didn’t die for the king’s honor, Bran. They died for his pride.”

Little difference it does to the majority of men. She’d be surprised if they could tell one from the other.

She and her brother might have continued with their quarrel, there before the old gods to witness, but they are interrupted at that moment by a voice at their back.

“Pardon me, my lord, my lady, but your mother requested both of your presence in the Great Hall.” The one to speak is Beth Cassel, with a slight blush on her cheeks and fidgeting nervously with the light yellow skirt of her dress, pretty auburn ringlets falling around her face and shoulders.

Bran jumps quickly to his feet, facing her, breathless and eager at the same time. Arya cannot remember ever seeing him like that.

“Mistress Cassel, well met,” he says with a soft smile before taking a deep breath and falling into a low and neat bow. The gesture seems so elegant and controlled, as if belonging to one of those southern courts Bran had lived in for all those years, and not the middle of a godswood while he’s still wearing his raggedy traveling clothes.

Still, it makes Beth go beat red, and she gives and equally fluid curtsy, averting her eyes shyly. “Welcome back, Lord Brandon.”

Since when are they ‘Mistress Cassel’ and ‘Lord Brandon’ to each other? Arya wants to ask them, seeing her brother stride towards the other girl and offering her his arm gallantry, which she takes gingerly and lets him lead into the courtyard. The longing gazes they are regarding one another with are definitely new, Arya thinks somewhat worriedly as she follows them a few paces behind, because nothing of it can ever come to pass, she’s sure of that.

At any rate, any attachment they might be forming will be met with a swift end after Arya marries, as she will be taking Beth with her to the Karhold to serve as her lady, and there finding a suitable match for her. Ser Rodrik had already agreed to it, to trust Arya with the task of getting his only child a worthy husband, no matter how ill equipped she felt to do it. But she remembers that Wylla had managed to marry off all of the girls they had send her over the years, and Sansa had done it with Jeyne Poole, too, so Arya will just have to do the best she can with the responsibility she’s been given.

Still, she very much doubts that Beth Cassel, a girl not born into a powerful family and who doesn’t possess any kind of noble title, could ever be counted as a potential candidate to wed Bran, a boy who is considered to require both of the aforementioned characteristics in any possible future bride he might take. That stirs a pang of sadness and guilt inside of her.

* * *

**_(Two) But it flew away from her reach, so she ran away in her sleep…_ **

That evening, gathered in the Great Hall for a late dinner, Arya keeps watch on her brother and Beth to see for anymore interactions between them. There is very little to note, however; Beth remains with her family, while Bran sets on in winning over Neddy and Serena. At first, Robb’s children weren’t so sure whether or not they should trust this uncle neither of them could remember—or had even met, in Serena’s case—, but by the time their nursemaid starts to usher them on back to their nursery so she can put them to sleep, Neddy is begging Bran to come along so he can tell them a bedtime story, and little Serena seems most unwilling to leave her uncle’s knee, the babe’s huge gray eyes looking at her uncle with adoration. Bran, of course, readily accepts. Those are just his natural charms at work, she thinks with exasperation.

She knows her mind should not be as focused on the matters of her brother and any hypothetical infatuation he might been developing with their childhood friend, not when she has more imminent concerns to be preoccupied with, like her wedding.

And her wedding night, as Jorelle Mormont is so keen in reminding her at the present.

She is seated with the Mormont sisters in one of the lower tables, after deciding to retire from the conversation with Wylla and all her former ladies when they had started a discussion on their respective married lives and their children. Even Alys had a lot to say about the son she’d left behind at Hornwood, a boy named Rickard.

She’s trying to evade any talk of marriage and husbands, period, and she can freely admit to it, so she’d thought going to seat with the rest of the unmarried girls would provide such escape.

She’d been wrong.

“I must say, Arya, you just landed a good one with Harry,” Jory tells her, giving a hearty swing to her ale.

“Did I?” Arya asks laconically, looking for possible chances to discreetly flee the hall.

“Well if you ought to only land one for the rest of your days, I think,” Jory says amusedly, and then leans over the table with a sly glint in her eyes. “Reckon he might be good in bed.”

Arya is quite sure her whole self has gone red; she’s never been so mortified. She’s sure Sansa would be proud by how scandalized the comment had made her feel.

“Forgive my sister, Arya, she doesn’t know how to mind her own tongue,” says Lyanna Mormont, passing a comforting arm around Arya as if she was some child in need of protection, even though they’re roughly the same age. “See what you did, Jory? You scared her senseless. She’ll be kicking Karstark right off their bed tomorrow, thanks to you.”

Is that even an option? Arya wonders with wild hopefulness.

“Well, she shouldn’t be,” Jory defends herself. “Surely she already knows what will happen when they are bought to bed. Don’t you, Arya?” With that last part, her friend turns to look at her worriedly.

“Of course I know!” Arya squeaks out, surprised that she’d managed to make her voice sound shaky and offended at the same time. But still, _of course_ she knows. Her mother had explained it all to her and Sansa years ago.

It had been during the eve of Sansa’s wedding, actually, and now she wishes she had paid more attention. Not about the act itself, that she understands well enough; it is all the… in-between details that concern her.

Back then, she had heard Mother’s first explanation and then promptly left her and her sister alone in the room. Even though at that time she’d already been betrothed, she wasn’t the one getting married the next day, it was Sansa, so she’d figured she was the one who needed their mother’s undivided attention.

Now she reckons it might have been smart to have stayed, if only so she wouldn’t be caught this much by surprise. She doesn’t want to come off to him tomorrow as a naive and unprepared maid, even though that’s exactly what she is.

Dacey Mormont smiles kindly at her for across the table, and then sends a warning glare at her bickering sisters. Even though she’s the oldest of the Mormont girls and heir to Bear Island, she’s still unmarried; probably never will be, just like Lady Maege Mormont never was.

“That’s just something Arya will have to discuss with her mother when she has the privacy to do so, though she has nothing to worry about, either way,” she intervenes distinctly before smoothly and, in true oldest child and heir fashion, changes the topic of conversation to ask Arya about a foal, born recently from a mare who had come from the Rills, and whether or not Robb would be open to sell it.

Arya knows she’ll get the privacy to talk to her mother that very night, and when the Greatjon starts to ask to clear the tables to get some room for dancing, she goes to her mother to let her know she’s going to bed. She doesn’t see Karstark anywhere, so he probably had retired even earlier than her, but she had been much too preoccupied with avoiding him to notice.

Her mother, of course, let’s her go, and tells her she’ll join her in her room promptly.

* * *

Mother arrives not even half an hour later, when Arya has already changed into her nightgown and is rummaging through some of the items of her dressing table to separate for packing. The majority of her clothes and footwear had already been packed away in trunks, awaiting for the journey they will make to the Karhold, but she still has to sort out some of the things left in her chamber, and think of a way to sneak in Needle between all her luggage.

When Mother enters her room, she goes directly to the bed, sitting silently on it and observing as Arya tries to fold a pair of old stockings as neatly as she can.

“Would you like me to comb your hair, my sweet?” her mother asks, somewhat uncertainty; this is not something she’s used to do with her youngest daughter, that’s something she used to share with Sansa instead. Growing up, Arya can’t deny she felt a bit of jealousy, watching her mother and sister tuck themselves away in a room for long periods of time, gossiping and giggling as Mother would comb through Sansa’s beautiful hair with immense care and love. It was not the act itself, but rather the fact that she knew, even back then, that she could not quite be part of what they shared.

Now she just smiles softly at her mother, and sits herself in front of her by the bed, passing her a comb so that she might start working, trying not to show her discomfort as her mother starts going through her sensitive scalp.

She knows now is the time to let all her questions out, but she doesn’t even know how to start. Thankfully Mother is not pressuring her at all, instead combing through Arya’s brown locks with delicacy.

Finally, Arya finds the words: “Will it hurt, Mother?” she says in a small voice, biting her lip and feeling her face heating up a little bit. She doesn’t even know what she’s so nervous about, ‘tis all so stupid.

“Mayhaps a little bit, at first. But the pain shouldn’t last for too long a time, if you’re ready enough,” her mother answers promptly, with a kind and patient voice Arya remembers from her childhood, when she’d been small and had a bad dream, and Mother would sit by her bedside and ask her about it, so by the time Arya would be finished describing it, she would reassure her that it’d just been that—a dream. And dreams could not hurt you.

“Yes, you’d already explained that,” Arya huffs anxiously, fidgeting with some of the hair that’s fallen over her left shoulder. “But how will I know when I am ready? Or if at all?”

“Well, that’s something you will experience when you’re with Harrion,” Mother assures her, as if that’s any help at all. “When you… touch each other. And he will know, too. I’m sure of it.”

Touch each other, Arya thinks, embarrassment coloring her cheeks even more, although she was already aware of that part, as well, of course. She doesn’t suppose it would feel like when she touches herself, still and all she doesn’t do it that frequently, just when she feels particularly stressed.

“But will it always hurt? Laying together, I mean,” the girl questions further.

“Of course not,” says Mother, but she then hesitates a little. “Though it was a little different for me, I believe. I only had that first night with your father, before he had to leave me for the war, and by the time we were reunited, I already had your brother with me. Giving birth had changed my body, so things were never the same afterwards.”

Arya nods, trying to take all the information in, but she feels a little awkward after hearing her mother’s words. Now she’s grateful she’d decided not to go to Wylla; perhaps her goodsister would be better at explaining things than her mother, she’s almost sure of it, but it would make her feel even more uncomfortable knowing she would be referencing Robb the whole time.

Arya still thinks that what her mother had said is important, however. As she said marriage had truly started when she already had a child, and she and Father could connect by having something to share betwixt them, to love and protect and see grow.

She bites her lip again, thinking how exactly to word her next question. “And when you arrived here, how did Father treat you?” She decides to turn around so that she can look directly at her mother, who by that time had stopped working on her hair with the comb. “That is, did he respect you from the star?”

She feels silly for even asking. She knows exactly the sort of man her father was, and how much he loved and respected her mother. But still, a small part of her is pressing her to know, to hear it from her mother’s own mouth.

“Yes, your father always treated me with nothing but respect, Arya,” Mother swears with an almost fierce look in her eyes. She then averts her gaze, closing her eyes as a painful expression settles on her face. “There were some… conflicts at the very start, of course. But that’s true enough for every marriage.”

By ‘conflicts’ she means Jon Snow, Arya knows, but she chooses not to make any mention of it. She doesn’t want to start a fight, least of all tonight.

Silence lingers around them for a moment before her mother looks back at her with even more determination. “And after the war, within these walls, I had love enough for any woman. Your father gave that to me, Arya, and that made me fall in love with him. But all the rest was me. I had to be strong, for my family and my people.” She takes Arya’s hands between her own. “And I know you will be too, because you’re like me.”

That last part takes Arya quite by surprise. “How am I like you?”

A smile starts to bloom across her mother’s face. “You are, sweetling, I can see it. You’re a stubborn one, like me, and that has served me well enough, when it came to be the lady of my own castle in strange lands, and so it shall serve you.”

Arya lets her mother’s words sink within her. Stubborn. That’s not the first time she’d been called that, but it is perhaps one of the only times the adjective had been related to her in a positive manner. The only other exception she can recall being Father, telling her about the wolf’s blood and the Stark pack with a fond look in his eyes.

Now she can feel her eyes swell with tears, and perhaps her mother is feeling sentimental as well, because she feels the grip in her hands tightening, when suddenly they’re interrupted by a knock on her door.

“Come in,” Mother calls, and Arya hurries to wipe at the tears that have halfway fallen down her face. The door opens with a crack, and Robb appears behind it, holding what seems to be a faded metal box between his hands.

“Forgive me, I’ll come back later,” her older brother says hurriedly when he notices their mother is there. He probably just came out of the Great Hall and from all their rowdy guests. Arya can see how tired he looks; dark circles have formed around his deep blue eyes.

Besides her, Mother lets out a slight sniff, but quickly gets up, smoothing the skirt of her dress with her hands. “There’s no need, love,” she says evenly, “I was just leaving.” She bends slightly to kiss Arys softly over the head, and then goes to Robb to do the same against his bearded cheek, before leaving her two children alone in her daughter’s room, closing the door behind her.

Robb turns to stare at her hesitantly, but Arya just sighs and pats the spot on her bed besides her. He sits, and Arya can look better at the box he’s carrying. It’s square and has a couple of inches of width, made of what appears to be cheap copper. It had once been painted with designs of blue ocean waves and ships, but the paint had started to peel off with the pass of time.

Arya doesn’t know what’s inside, or why Robb has it, but when she looks up she’s met with her brother’s gaze, a melancholy glint in his eyes, and a small, sad smile that has formed on his lips. “It was Jon’s,” he voices, staring at the box.

Arya’s eyes fly to the object, the metal shining against the light cast by the room’s candles, and gazes at it longingly. She doesn’t know what astonishes her the most: the fact that there’s something new about Jon that she wasn’t aware of, or that Robb is bringing it up to her at all. He doesn’t talk about Jon, not to her at least. He hasn’t in years.

“We were at a small village between the borders of the Riverlands and the Westerlands, back at the very start of the war,” Robb begins, voice very far away as he traces the rustic drawn patterns at the top of the box with one of his fingers. “The Lannister army had left the place almost completely destroyed. I’d never seen anything like it, and neither had Jon. And there… there was a young woman and her son. He’d been wounded, the child. He and the mother were trapped below the collapsed ceiling of their home. No one had heard them, or they pretended they hadn’t. But Jon did.”

Robb looks out at her open window, to the dark night sky only illuminated by the half moon and the stars surrounding it, and it seems as if he’s talking more to himself than to her. “He helped them. Hauled them out of the rubble alone and then carried the child in his arms to a maester, who didn’t even want to treat him, until I intervened,” he scoffs. “But the boy was saved, and when it was time for us to leave the village, the woman came to Jon, and gave her this.” Her brother shifts his eyes from the window down to the small box still resting in his hands. “It was full of coin, her lifelong savings, no doubt. And of course, Jon refused any payment, but the woman kept insisting, so he ended up telling her that she could keep the coin, and he wanted only the box, as it would be far more useful to him.

A soft laugh comes out of Arya’s throat, though it sounds choked even to her own ears. “How very much like him.”

“Aye,” Robb smiles brokenly. “He started keeping letters inside of it, or pieces of parchment where he would scribble something. Or whatever he wanted, really, so long as he could fit it in. Said it was good luck.”

They stay silent for a long time after that. Arya is not sure how to respond to her brother’s words, or even if she ought to, but all the same, she tries to crave the story he’d just told her in her heart, along with all her other memories and stories she has of Jon.

“I never opened it,” Robb finally says, turning to face her. “It was locked, when I found it. And Jon didn’t had a key with him, when—“ he cuts himself off, fighting back a sob, tears in his eyes. “There was no key, so I didn’t open it.”

“You could have broken the lock,” she points out, voice shaky, feeling close to tears herself.

“Yes, I could have,” he agrees, but almost instantly starts to shake his head vigorously. “But it wasn’t mine to open, it was Jon’s, and I—I just couldn’t… he—I believe he would rather you have it, Arya.” He deposits the box carefully over her legs, and Arya looks at it incredulously, but cradles it tentatively between her hands, before turning her eyes back at her brother.

“That’s not true, Robb,” she tells him instinctively. “He would like you to have it just as much as me.”

Robb smiles bitterly at her words, tears falling freely down his face now. “No, you don’t get it. I broke my promise,” he whispers hoarsely. “When he—w-when he was dying, he asked me to take care of you. Was the only thing he asked of me, really.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes with a painful expression before letting all the air out of his chest in one quick exhale. “He asked me not to let you go through it all on your own, that you weren’t that strong, even if you would never admit to it.” He no longer is able to meet her eyes, she can tell. “And I tried, when you came back, and I had to tell you, I tried but—you… were so _angry_ at me, and I was so angry at myself. I just didn’t know what to do—“

She interrupts him by throwing her arms boldly around his neck, hugging him close. He remains very still in her arms, but she can feel his heavy breathing start to abate. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” she sobs over his shoulder. “That I… have been making you feel that way, all these years. I wasn’t angry at you, Robb, I was angry at the world, at what it did to Jon, and Father. I guess I just—it was easier to take it out with you because—“

“I understand,” Robb cuts her off, surrounding her by the back with his arms and pulling her closer to him. Yes, he understands; they had both lost Jon, after all.

She feels the box start to slide off her lap, but her brother is quicker and catches it with one hand before it can hit the floor. They pull apart and look at each other, both of them crying, but the smile on her brother’s face is a happy one, even if his gaze remains troubled.

“This is now yours,” he says staunchly, returning the box back to her. “You don’t have to open it now, or at all, if you don’t want to. But if you do, I hope you’ll share what’s inside with me, some day.”

* * *

**_(Three) And dreamed of para-para-paradise, every time she closed her eyes…_ **

Two hours pass since Robb left her, before Arya gives up on getting any resemblance of sleep. Is not that late yet, anyways, but she knows that if she doesn’t want to pass out during the wedding feast tomorrow, she has to at least try. However, the need to sleep just isn’t coming to her, not when Jon’s box is sitting at her bedside table, so close and yet so out of her reach.

She’s not ready to open it, that much she’s conscious of; no matter how easy it would be to take Needle and use it to break that old, rusty lock that’s keeping it sealed.

So instead she decides to get out of bed and go to her wardrobe, opening it and rummaging through the back of it until she finds a pair of old breeches and a dark-gray tunic. They used to be Bran’s, but he had outgrown them a few years ago, so now she would wear them whenever she had the opportunity and knew no one would lecture her about the improperty of using men’s clothes. They are far more comfortable for training, anyways, which is exactly what she’s planning to do. Once she’s changed her clothes, Arya crouches down to lift one corner of the soft gray rug that adorns her room, and locates the loose tile on the floor that by now she could find as easily as her own shadow. She gets it off, pulling Needle out carefully from the narrow space below.

She leaves her room, mindful not to make too much noise, she doesn’t see anyone on the hallway, but she still makes sure to conceal her sword completely under her cloak as she exits the Great Keep. She can still hear a few people inside the Great Hall as she passes the building, but she hopes there’s no one who would recognize her. There are guards over on the walls and watchtowers, but none of them are looking on the direction of the castle where she is.

Once she reaches the godswood, she’s grateful to find it empty. She goes directly to the heart tree, loosening her cloak, leaving it over one of the protruding roots of the weirwood. Getting Needle out of its sheath, she prepares her first position.

She wishes Bran were here, to help her practice and to correct her posture; weren’t it that he’s probably half dead on his bed right now, after he had made such a long journey. Still, he’s one of the few people that know she has the sword, aside from Wylla, who had figured out Arya it had shortly after she’d married Robb. And Mikken, of course, since he had made it in the first place.

She’s always enjoyed when Bran comes home and they can spar together, using wooden training swords or sticks, running and shouting and laughing all around the godswood. When they were children, she could almost always beat him, but after he’d gotten a more formal training on the south, that had changed. Yet he’s the only one who could help her, so she tries to remember some of the moves he’s taught her, giving a few experimental strokes into the empty air and then more rapid, firmer ones. She starts to spin in circles, trying not to lose her balance and then stops in an abrupt, offensive stance, trying to imagine some fearsome opponent she’s about to attack.

The light of the half moon is shining over her, and when she looks up to it, she closes her eyes and tries to bathe herself on it. Mayhaps it will help give her strength to face tomorrow.

“Lady Arya?”

She lets out a high pitched shriek, stabbing blindly with her sword at the direction the voice had come from, though the person is way too far from her to actually reach.

Harry Karstark is regarding her with an expression of utter incredulity. Her and the sword both.

Oh, blast it all! Out of all the people who could have discovered her here, doing this, it had to be him. She would much have preferred it to be her mother, or Robb, or Septa Mordane returned from the motherhouse, but not this man, her future husband. The man who, starting tomorrow, will have the right by law to command her, to take things away from her without a second thought. No, she shan’t have it; she won’t allow herself to be treated like piece of property.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, trying desperately to hide Needle behind her back, but it’s too late.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, his brows frowning slightly, although he doesn’t make any move to venture further into the godswood.

“But I asked first.” Arya winces at her own words, but they had come involuntarily out of her mouth. She waits for a petulant ‘and I asked second’ from Karstark, that’s what any of her brothers would respond to her, but her betrothed is apparently too mature for such childish mien, as he just sighs tiredly and, even from a distance, Arya can see how he rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Well, if you really ought to know, I came here to pray, as people are prone to do when inside a godswood,” he says, voice is full of sarcasm. “Now is your turn to answer, my lady.”

Arya decides than an honest answer is the best course of action, given her circumstances. “I was training, obviously.”

“Obviously,” echoes Karstark, walking right past her until he reaches the heart tree, near where her cloak is laid, sitting down over the same root nonchalantly, and resting his elbows on his knees. He stares at her for a long moment. “And is this a common occurrence for you?”

“Err… kind of,” Arya stammers. “It’s easier to practice at night, you see, so I won’t be caught and—“

“Caught? You mean your family doesn’t know?”

Is this some kind of damn interrogatory? She wants to snap at him. “Of course they don’t know!” she exclaims instead, frustration starting to overcome her. “Not all of them, anyway. Do you honestly believe my mother would ever approve of my having a sword? Never! Especially if she knew Jon gave it to me.”

“Jon Snow gave you that sword?” he asks again, and while all his other questions so far had sounded mildly annoyed or even sardonic in nature, now he seems genuinely surprised.

Arya stalks towards him until she’s in front of him, letting her back slide across the tree’s pale trunk, sitting against it with her legs crossed. It’s not the most ladylike of stances, but then again, her betrothed is not precisely carrying himself in a particular lordly fashion, at the moment. She almost prefers it that way, makes him seem more a man and less a title.

Arya gives a single, sharp nod with her head. “It’s one of the only things I have left of him. It's the most cherished thing I have in the world. And I won’t let anyone take it away from me. Not my mother or you or—“

“And why on earth do you think I would do such a thing?” Karstark suddenly all but hisses at her. For the first time, she sees him become openly vexed, glaring daggers in her direction.

“Well, because I’m a woman,” she replies in a small, uncertain voice.

“Aye, I’m well aware of what you are, my lady,” he laughs mirthlessly. “Rest assured I still wouldn’t give a damn if you had a sword or a bloody collection of them, so long as you weren’t planning to use them to kill me in my sleep.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Arya argues weakly, though she had thought of exactly that at one point, but Karstark doesn’t need to know it. Still, she must really have angered him if he’s suddenly cussing openly in front of her, whereas in all their other interactions so far, he had always enacted himself as the perfect gentleman.

“Gods, I already knew you had a poor opinion of me,” he continues with his rant as if he hadn’t heard her. “But to think that you are assuming that I would just… take things away from you, only because you imagine I don’t approve of them or something.”

“You think it’s _me_ the one who has a low opinion of you, my lord?” she says, louder this time so that he won’t be able to ignore her. “When it’s you the one who acts as if you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Karstark all but scoffs. “I barely know you.”

“And whose fault is that?” she demands angrily.

“Yours,” he says coldly, his northern accent thickening and his eyes flashing. “ _You_ are the one who has been doin’ yer damn best to avoid me ever since I arrived here. You think I haven’t noticed? And then you look as if you’re about to throw up when someone talks about me in yer presence,” he snorts sardonically. “Or at least, I think Jory Mormont was talking about me, given that she just wouldn’t stop looking in my direction.”

Oh gods, he’d noticed that. He doesn’t know exactly what they’d been talking about but still, she feels blood start to rush up to her face, and tries to will it down with all her might.

“Well, forgive if I’m not overcome with joy by the prospect of our marriage,” she says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t have much of a say in the matter.”

“Then you could’ve said something about it to me,” he replies evenly. “Today, or yesterday. Hells, even when I first wrote to you.”

“You wrote to me?” Arya asks with incredulity. She doesn’t remember ever receiving a letter from him.

The man gives another long sight, passing a hand over his face in irritation. “Aye, when the betrothal was first announced, I wrote to you and asked how you felt about it, though I never got any answer. And clearly you don’t even remember.”

No, she doesn’t. She had no recollection of ever receiving any kind of correspondence from him. Then again, back then she’d feel so resented by the decision that mayhaps she had just straight up evaded any and all things related to her then new betrothed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, biting her lip anxiously. “Back then I was… upset. About everything, really, especially the war. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with everything else.”

“You weren’t the only one who lost a father and a brother on the south, my lady.”

He’s talking about his father, Rickard Karstark, and younger brother Torrhen. She hadn’t really forgotten about it, but maybe part of her hadn’t wanted to consider how those loses might have affected him, so as to not see him as more human.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, looking to the ground. “I’m sorry for your father and your brother and also about not responding to your letters. You must see me as some coddled brat who only thinks about herself; but I swear I’m not.”

For a long moment, Karstark only looks at her, without saying anything. Silence lingering around them, and Arya wonders how much longer she’ll be able to withstand it.

“Don’t apologize, Arya, it’s not your fault; and it’s in the past. All of it,” he finally says, his tone of voice turning almost gentle. It doesn’t escape to her that it’s the first time he addresses her simply by her name, although she’s not sure whether or not she should make any mention of it. “And I don’t think you’re a brat. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. It hasn’t been easy for me either,” he continues, leaning forward a little, and it forces her to raise his eyes up, locking her gaze with his, noting that it has become softer, more understanding. “But I need to know what exactly do you want out of this marriage, or if you want it at all. I don’t want us to be miserable for the rest of our lives.”

Did she just hear him wrong? Is he offering to call off the wedding? Is that even possible? It would be a scandal, centrally. Does she even want to create such uproar for her family and for her? Does she even want to marry this man at all?

She does. Maybe. Possibly. She thinks she could try.

“Well, for starters, I would like us to be honest with each other,” she says tentatively, trying to get an unruly piece of her hair behind one of her ears.

She wonders why she’s even taking this tail of topic, instead of the one about not having a marriage at all, but then a smile starts to form on Karstark’s face, the first genuine one he’s ever directed at her.

“On that we can agree. I want for us to always try to be honest, even if we might not like what the other has to say.”

“Also, if I’m going to be your wife, I want you to confide in me on what is troubling you,” she continues, more confident now. “I don’t want to be left in the dark, especially regarding the important things. I don’t want to be treated like a child, Harrion.”

“Harry,” he says suddenly, and then hurriedly clears his throat. “Call me Harry. That’s what everyone else calls me, anyway.” He sounds almost nervous.

“Alright… Harry,” Arya nods, smiling slightly. A smile that Harry returns readily.

“And I will,” he says, smile still present. “Confide in you, that is. But I hope you will, too,” he looks pointedly at Needle laying by her side, “even if it’s about any secret swords you might happen to possess.”

Arya picks it up, letting out a small laugh as she looks at it. “It’s named Needle.”

“That’s a very ingenious name,” he chuckles. “Do you have any other request?”

She glances back up at him. “Just one,” she replies soberly. “More than anything, I want your respect.”

“And you shall have it,” Harry is quick to respond, looking intently into her eyes, not a trace of hesitation in his face. “As my wife, you shall always have my respect. That’s a promise.”

“And you shall have mine,” Arya decides to add, straightening her posture, eyes full of conviction.

Harry jumps to his feet swimmingly, walking towards her with a reassurance on his steps; he then extends one hand to her, expectantly. When she takes it, he hauls her to her feet easily, and they are face to face with each other. She no longer has to crane up her neck to look at him, but he’s still a full head taller than her. He stares at her with an unreadable expression, his blue-gray eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Then we have a deal,” he says in a low voice, although they’re so close she can hear him perfectly.

Arya nods slightly, and before she can really think her next actions through, she uses the hand that’s not still clasped between his own and puts it over one of his shoulders to balance herself on her tiptoes, kissing him on the lips.

The contact is soft, feather like, but it still makes her shudder a little. It’s not her first kiss, though she still wouldn’t count herself as particularly experienced in that regard. Still, this isn’t the same as the other ones. This man will be her husband—that makes it altogether different, at least to her.

At first, Harrion remains completely unmoving, maybe too taken by surprise to ignite any reaction from him, but then she feels his other hand settling gently on her back, pulling her ever so slightly toward him, and he increases the pressure of their mouths, kissing her lower lip. His lips are warm and dry at the same time, and she can feel his beard scratching her skin. Yet she finds herself liking it more than she’d initially thought.

She’s the one who breaks off the kiss, separating herself from him, not daring to meet his eyes. She starts searching for her things, scattered around the ground and the roots of heart tree, going first to pick up her sword and its sheath nearby.

“I just… wanted to do it now—get it out of the way. Not tomorrow, in front of everyone,” she tells Harry shakily, her back to him, struggling to get Needle inside the sheath. She doubles over to him after taking her cloak, and sees he hasn’t really moved from the spot she had left him in, one hand hovering uncertainty in front of him, as if trying to decide whether or not to reach out for her. “Well then, goodnight,” she murmurs, almost breathless, and then starts running right past him and out of the godswood.

Arya doesn’t stop running until she’s reached her chambers, this time caring little who might had seen her on her way back. She feels reckless and foolish and, worst of all, giddy. She flies up to her window, leaning haltingly against the sill, trembling from the cold that still lingers from being outside, and looks out to the courtyard and to the path that leads to the godswood; she doesn’t see him returning, so perhaps he did stay to pray, as he said he came to do in the first place.

She goes to sit over on her bed, leaving the curtains open so that she can keep watching outside, in case he appears, but without realizing, she ends up falling into a deep slumber.

* * *

> _300, the Riverlands,_
> 
> _Dear Arya,_
> 
> _You don’t have to worry, for we’re safe right now. And we shall remain so for at least a couple of moons, given that we haven’t received any news for the outcome of the naval battle near the crownlands, and we don’t want to do any moves further south that we might later regret. You know I cannot tell you too much, in case this letter is intercepted; but if you can, pray for the success of Stannis Baratheon and his fleet._
> 
> _I’m glad you’re getting along so well with Wylla; just remember that you have to listen to other people too. Lady Leona is there to teach you and Sansa, and you ought to always be respectful to her and be grateful to the rest of House Manderly for their kindness._
> 
> _Regarding Jon, I believe he has been a little off since father, yes. But you have to give him time. He’ll come around, I’m sure of it._
> 
> _Be good, Arya. This shall not last much longer._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Robb._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, glad you made it all the way here! Sorry for the delayed update, I got a little busy with my uni work and since I'm in the process of graduating (hopefully), it's hard to find enough time to write.
> 
> Hope you liked the chapter. Not a lot happened plot-wise but it gave time for characters to interact with Arya and develop, so I felt it was important and I'm satisfied with how it turned out (I actually had to rewrite a few chunks of it bc some parts didn't quite work the way I wanted). I'm going to try to make the timeline advance more in future chapters tho, after we get to the Karhold.
> 
> A few quick notes:
> 
> House Marsh is an actual house of the North, one of its members is a Brother of the Watch with Jon. I just decided that they would also be Karstark vassals.
> 
> This is not something GRRM uses much in the books but the medieval costume (it was actually in use as far as the beginnings of the Regency in England, I think) of calling people without noble titles “master” or “mistress” is something I wanted to add here bc not everyone can be a lord, lady or princess. Decided to have Beth addressed as such to highlight the “differences in status” between her and Bran. Btw, I actually had fun writing their scene. I wasn't sure at first if I really wanted to go with the Bran/Beth paring for the story but tbh it goes with the “rare ship” theme I have going on here, so we're going hard on it. It's more fun to me that way.
> 
> This chapter is titled “To Robb” so I hope you liked his scene with Arya and what I tried to convey on it. That lil' box is gonna play a huge part in the fic lol.
> 
> After that is the part with Harry, in which THEY FINALLY TALK. Tbh I didn't want Arya to be really forced to marry, I wanted for them to come to an agreement. He was right, Arya was avoiding him. Not trying to blame her on this—she had every right to be nervous, not only about things like sex (though considering that she's more sheltered than in the books, she still reasonably is a little worried), but more about entering a marriage in which she would be treated as an object/not respected. Harry's not an asswhole tho so he's like “I wouldn't do that but u need to TALK to me” and then she opens up a little to him. I think it's then that she starts to like him; they're not madly in love with each other or anything but it's a start. 
> 
> Initially this final part was completely different but sometimes the characters take over and dictate things for you. Especially with Harry, but I finally had the chance to show another part of his personality . He's not always a stickass, he's also sarcastic and tired™. He has a lot on his plate is all, kinda like Robb but with a far messier family.
> 
> Also forgot to mention it last chapter but I add lyrics to each chapter, last one was King And Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men. This one is Fix You by Coldplay (kinda cliché but it did inspire me to write). I know myself so next one, the wedding, is prob gonna be a Hozier one lmfao.
> 
> Anyways I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. I'm a needy bitch who wants validation so please leave a comment if you can, a puppy will be adopted somewhere in the world if you do.


	3. To Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! A couple of things before you start the chapter.
> 
> Remember that Arya gave Jocey two ribbons and one of them was gold 'like the colors of House Karstark?' Yeah, I fucked up, it was supposed to be white. And I already knew that but like, my brain shut down at that moment or something idk. I corrected it, so don't think it’s a continuity error lol.
> 
> Also quick WARNING for mentions of sexual assault. Nothing explicit, so don't worry; it’s just referenced that things like that happen in tWoIaF, but tbh I'm not GRRM so I'm not going to explicitly write about it. 
> 
> And another thing: there's a smutty scene by the end of the chapter. Again, not super explicit but it's there.
> 
> We're going to start with a big flashback so be prepared lmao.
> 
> Song used [Florence + The Machine - Shake It Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs)
> 
> Enjoy!

> _305, Winterfell,_
> 
> _Dear Sansa,_
> 
> _Well, first of all, you already know my opinion on Aunt Lysa—which is that she’s a bitter old hag and you should never listen to anything she has to say. It is no concern of hers whether the babe is born a boy or a girl. Truly, you shouldn’t worry too much about it either. You and Harrold are still young, there shall be time._
> 
> _Meanwhile, your only focus should be making sure you are comfortable for the birth. You remember how Wylla says is better not to move too much during the final moons of a pregnancy (and I know you still haven’t reached that stage, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared), especially if it’s the first one._
> 
> _Not much has been happening with me, if I am being honest. I had another dress fitting the other day. I am sure Mother has already described the dress to you in the most vivid of details, so I shall only give my frank, short opinion of it: it’s a nice dress, it has pretty embroidery in the skirt, and I also cannot wait to be done with it for the rest of my life. I know you’re probably yanking at your own hair because of what I just wrote, but I did warn you I was going to be frank._
> 
> _Now tell me, is it true that Bran bested one of Uncle Jon’s knights in a spar? He went on about it in his last letter, but I thought it was more so he could rub it off to Rickon, who, by the way, was pretty upset. It was so amusing._
> 
> _I have to go now, Sansa, but please do consider what I told you about Aunt Lysa. Bran is always going on about how you are far too nice with her at times and that, coming from him, has to mean something. Being nice to others is kind of his main personality trail._
> 
> _Much love,_
> 
> _Arya._

* * *

**(Then) Cause I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart…**

As Arya continues to grow, turning into a girl of thirteen, three years after her father’s death and one after Jon’s, she comes to the conclusion that, even if time has passed, sadness doesn’t simply disappear, though it becomes easier and easier to pretend at being fine, as if there’s not a giant first perpetually squeezing at her heart.

Wylla becomes something akin to an anchor to her, that Arya latches onto mainly because she’s the only member of her family who doesn’t remind her of what she’s lost; as much as she’s come to love her goodsister in the time they have spent together, even before she wedded Robb, Wylla doesn’t bring up any memories to Arya’s mind that can be associated with Father and Jon.

To Arya, that feels like a small mercy, truly. She doesn’t fancy the idea of spending all of her days thinking of them, grieving for them, no matter if part of her things it’s some kind of betrayal to even consider otherwise.

Thus she stays close to Wylla, despite, more often than not, it meaning sitting down for long hours, listening to the other girls talk—the ones who had grown up on Winterfell, as well as Wylla’s new ladies-in-waiting—but not feeling as if she has much to say herself. ‘Tis not as if going outside the castle is much of an option now that winter has truly began to settle in, and it appears that a new, heavy snowstorm sleets down on them every couple of days, coating it all in floe.

So she knits instead, to fritter away time, grateful that no one is pressuring her anymore to do needlework. Only thinking about it makes her remember her younger self, trying desperately to will her shaky hands to remain steady enough so that her stitches wouldn’t come out uneven, only to then have her work scrutinized in front of everyone while a cruel voice informed her of how poorly she’d performed, not caring how wretchedly that made Arya feel. That’s why she prefers knitting, as she’s found it’s easier to conceal and correct all the mistakes her clumsy hands can make whilst using yarn instead of thread.

Septa Mordane doesn’t serve their household anymore, but she still manages to cast a long shadow over Arya that’s been hard to escape, so she’s not been exactly willing to risk having her shortcomings exposed like that ever again. Jon Snow is not there to soothe Arya and reassure her that it doesn’t matter if her stitches are crooked, mussing her hair affectionately.

Besides, no one could be able to accuse her of not partaking in ladylike activities—knitting is a womanly pursuit, her family has agreed on that much, and the more items she creates, like scarves and hats and even socks, the better. Her work needn’t even be perfect; they are in the midst of winter, after all, and those types of clothing are in requirement more than ever, to give to the common folk in need. It’s the charitable thing to do, in accordance to the teachings imparted by the Seven, Wylla and Sansa both conclude.

That very well might be the case, Arya often contemplates, amused by the fact that she has all but given up any pretense on even holding any faith to the gods of her mother—not that she’d ever been particularly devoted to them to begin with—and instead reserves all of her prayers to the old ones. Nonetheless, out of all the ladies who are working on making winter gear for the smallfolk residing in the Winter Town, she’s the fastest producer by far.

She likes the distraction, and maybe her speed has more to do with a lack of detail she puts in her creations, unlike the rest of her companions. She follows simple patterns, not caring much if they are too thigh or too loose. They are warm; that’s all they need to be, she reckons.

And so she goes with Wylla to the town once every turn of the moon to help her hand out the clothing they’d created, as well as other types of garments such as warm cloaks, footwear, and other necessities that might be needed by those seeking refuge and protection from House Stark.

It also has to do with how Wylla is reaching the sixth moon of pregnancy, and Arya simply not wanting her goodsister to make—albeit short—journey alone, no matter how many guards Robb might send to accompany her.

Wylla having to go at all is all part of her ongoing duties as Lady of Winterfell, which she’s readily taken in stride. Arya’s mother still manages the bulk of the ruling in the keep, Arya suspects, despite Robb being already two years past the age of majority. But he spends all of his time shut away in his solar, writing a bunch of stupid letters. Mother also helps Wylla with all aspects of the household running, though she’s slowly passing the reins on to her.

Arya and Wylla ride together until they are outside of the Smoking Log, in front of the town’s square, where she can see folks steadily start to gather, awaiting the wagon laden with supplies that the two of them are bringing.

Wylla goes inside the alehouse to begin organizing the good’s distribution, while the guards from the keep who had escorted them start to unload the many wagons they bought along. Arya goes to one of them to help, and tries to drag down sack full of grain, which proves to be a bad idea, she soon realizes, since it is too heavy for her to move on her own.

“Let me help ye, m’lady,” a voice says behind her, and Arya turns around to see the person who’s speaking to her.

It’s a boy, who seems to be not much older than her, with a long northern face and short brown hair partially hidden under a dingy dark hood. He also appears to be strong, and that’s further demonstrated when he takes the sack on both hands and hauls it off the cart with almost nay a struggle.

“I could have done that,” Arya huffs with annoyance, using her mink cloak to try and protect herself from the cold. The sun has settled already on the horizon even if it’s only midday, light coming from the torches that illuminate the town’s square.

“No doubt, but I’m happy to help,” he replies, sending her an easy smile before going up into the wagon to keep with the unloading work. He pushes forth a wooden box, jumping back to the ground, seemingly unsure on how to get it down without breaking it.

Arya lopes up to stand beside him. “Now I’ll help you,” she informs him, her tone firm enough to not give him any chance to argue. The boy doesn’t refuse her offer, however, and together they manage to lower down the box before one of the Winterfell guards comes back to take it.

The boy turns back to her, now regarding her with a somewhat sheepish smile. “Well, suppose now’s me turn to give m’thanks,” He looks around them uncertainly, as if expecting that someone directly from the castle will come to inform him that he is not allowed to talk to her, obviously aware of, at the very least, Arya’s lady status, loath as she is of it. “Name’s Mors, by the way. And what’s yers, m’lady?”

“Arya,” she says, returning his smile, suddenly feeling shy. “Just Arya, though, no need to call me anything else.”

He doesn’t look too sure in regard of her words, and whether or not he should even risk being heard addressing her so informally, but he stays, and continues to unload the rest of the cargo alongside her, the guards and the other town’s men who had come forward to help. That’s how she learns that he’s originally from west of the Northern Mountains, and came down following Lord Wull and his kin to take refuge from the winter. “So I guess me an’ m’family are leavin’ when the Wull does, who knows. I like it here, though,” he tells her cheerily, and Arya is glad that it means she might see him again the next time she comes down with Wylla.

And see him again she does. The next time they go to the town, Mors is there, laughing and japing with some other boys and young men outside the Smoking Log. His easy grin widens when he catches sight of her, and Arya can’t help but smile back, feeling a little silly by how quick she is to return his smiles, but she simply can’t help but like him. She enjoys his company, the moments they can steal away talking as they move boxes and sacks together into the alehouse, although all the while, both seem acutely aware of the fact that those conversations are as far as they can go. It’s him the one who seems to accept that reality more than her, as every time Wylla or—on the occasions she decides to accompany them—Sansa passes them by, he’s the one to augment the nearness that inevitably grows whenever they speak with one another.

But even then, she can feel Wylla’s gaze linger suspiciously behind their backs as she continues walking. It’s not the same case with Sansa; mayhaps her sister is far too familiar with Arya’s way of relating to people that, according to her, are ‘below their station’ in life.

But Arya forces herself not to pay it any mind. She’s not doing anything wrong, after all. What’s the harm in a friendship? ‘Tis stupid, really; she knows he’s leaving once the winter passes, back to the mountains with the rest of his clan. She’s smart enough to surmise that even if he likes her too, he will never act on it. So she conforms herself to their talks and smiles; how he appears to genuinely like her for her, and not because of how powerful her father was when alive or her brother is now. She likes Mors and she likes the pleasant feeling on the pit of her stomach that she gets when they’re together.

Winter continues raging on upon them, and the next time Arya goes to Winter Town, she’s only accompanied by Sansa, as Wylla has just entered her confinement, and can no longer withstand to travel.

After they arrive to the Smoking Log, both sisters start organizing the supplies’ distribution. Arya is too focused on her task to really look for Mors, though she supposes he’s outside helping with the unloading, and will be seeing him before she has to leave with Sansa.

Later on, as the alehouse owner is handing out cups of mulled mead to the Winterfell guards to warm them up, Arya sees Mors entering the building, nose and cheeks red from the cold outside. She asks the bartender for a cup, and then goes to him. He’s stayed close to the entrance, partially hidden behind a stone pillar. At the other side it’s a fairly small window, facing the east side of the town. When Mors notices Arya approaching, he smiles broadly at her, and thanks her when she gives him the drink.

“Fancy seeing ye here again, m’lady,” he says blithely, blowing lightly at the steam coming out from the beverage.

“Just Arya is fine, I told you,” she replies with false exasperation, though he pays her no mind, leaning casually against the pillar as he gives an experimental sip from the cup.

“Aye, an’ I told ye I ain’t doin’ that, m’lady, or the Stark would take m’head.” He gives a nonchalant shrug, looking mildly amused by the thought. “Thinkin’ ‘bout it, I didn’t see his lady wife today. She unwell?”

Arya brightens at the mention of Wylla, and the reminder that soon there will be a newborn joining their pack. “Oh, not at all; she’s just too near her time to leave the keep. The maester says the baby should be born by the beginning of the next moon”

Mors appears genuinely happy on her behalf, which warms her heart without her being able to stop it. “Congratulations, m’lady,” he tells her. “It’ll be a winter babe. M’sister had one not long ago, says they’re of strong stock.”

Arya thinks on his words for a moment, and then playfully raises an eyebrow. “Really now? And what are spring babes like? I was born in that season, you know.”

They’ve started to move closer to one another, but Arya doesn’t feel like getting away, and Mors doesn’t appear much inclined to, either. She can feel warmth coming from him.

“Those are the sweet ones, of course,” he murmurs. They’re so close now that she can perfectly hear him, though, and can see how his gaze shifts from her eyes to her lips.

She kisses him, then, quickly before pulling away. She’s never done this before, so she’s unsure of what to do from there, and bites her lower lip, shameful feelings beginning to slink within her.

But she doesn’t have to think too much about it, because next thing she knows, he’s the one kissing her, one hand behind her neck so that he can deepen the kiss. Arya quite enjoys it, more than she ever imagined she would; the warmth that has placed itself in her stomach becoming more intense as his mouth presses enthusiastically against her own. Mayhaps Jeyne Poole wasn’t exaggerating when she gushed about being kissed, it feels rather nice.

A loud, raucous noise makes them break apart. Dazed, Arya veers to face the source of the sound, and is met with a pair of Tully blue eyes, coldly staring back at her.

Sansa is furious, it’s the first realization that hits Arya—heavy and painful like if a rock had been thrown at her, landing directly in her belly, replacing that pleasant feeling with a dreadful, revolting one.

Harwin standing behind Sansa, and Arya falters when she sees pity in his eyes.

“Harwin,” her sister’s voice is shrill like the strike of a whip, “please go ahead and ready the horses, we will be leaving immediately.”

“I’m on it, my lady,” says the guard dutifully, dashing past the door and onto the town’s square.

“Come along, Arya,” Sansa says in that same hard tone.

Arya shakes her head feebly, hot anger starting to creep in, screaming at her to lash out to the older girl for even presuming that she can order her around. “Sansa, you—“

“We really ought to go now,” Sansa interrupts her firmly, her eyes moving from Arya to the person standing silently behind her. “I am sure you understand, Master…” she trails off, expectantly.

“Mors, m’lady,” Mors says faintly, all the cheerfulness gone from his voice.

“Right, Master Mors,” Sansa replies, a mask of politeness now firmly placed on her face, concealing the anger behind. “Thank you, for keeping my sister company. You’ve done a great service to House Stark, but it shall no longer be required.”

Not waiting for a response, Sansa goes to Arya and takes her hand, pulling her with surprising strength towards the exit. Arya slackly follows, only daring to turn back her head as she’s leaving Mors behind her. He’s not looking at her but at the floor, having fallen into a slight, inelegant bow. She knows in her heart he will never again so much as take a peek in her direction, regardless if they ever happen to cross paths in the future.

She lets herself be led by Sansa to the horses already awaiting them, woodenly settling on her mount as her sister is helped onto her own horse by Harwin.

Harwin goes back to the vanguard with the rest of host that will escort them back to the castle, and takes his own saddle. Meanwhile, Arya watches Sansa meticulously arrange her skirts over her legs; she rides astride, even if it’s more difficult that way, and slows her pace substantially.

It’s not until after they’ve begun to advance, the guards riding farther behind to give the sisters some privacy, that Arya decides to speak, trying to keep her voice calm and her emotions at bay. “You had no right.”

Sansa doesn’t glance back, keeping her eyes firmly set on the road ahead. “I had every right,” she says mildly. “You’re lucky that only Harwin and I saw your little...mishap. And he shan’t say anything.”

Arya isn’t sure what infuriates her the most: that her sister is lecturing her about kissing a boy, or that she’s calling it a ‘mishap’.

“I don’t care, you shouldn’t have spoken to him like that,” Arya says, defiant, feeling a lump of frustration form in her throat just by imagining how horrible Sansa’s treatment must have made Mors feel. “Besides, what will you do? Go to Mother and Robb? Tell them what you saw?”

“If you continue acting so foolish, I will,” Sansa says in warning. “You could very easily ruin your reputation.”

“I don’t care about my bloody reputation.”

“Well you _bloody_ should!” Sansa hisses, too enraged to be mindful of her language. “You think you could ever land a respectable match if word were to go out that you were being… too familiar… with some—some— _peasant_ ”

“ _Stop it_!” Arya cuts her off, seething with barely restrained anger. “Just stop it! I don’t care. Not about what you have to say or about landing some stupid match!”

Truly, why would she? If the only thing this hypothetical man will be concerned with is whether or not she’s be pure and untouched for his use, like she is a pair of fancy boots, then she doesn’t want him at all.

But her sister doesn’t seem to share her views at all, giving a heavy sigh in some vain attempt to calm the irritation that only Arya is able to arise in her.

“So you will spend the rest of your life in Winterfell?” Sansa asks, her voice holding that same mocking and cruel tint that she would sometimes address Arya with when they were children. “Being dependent of Robb and Wylla? Weathering away in their shadow? No, you don’t want that, Arya,” her sister’s tone gentles, sending her an almost pleading look. “Please listen to me; I’m trying to help.”

Arya negates slowly with her head, her eyes staring to sting, but fights back the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t need your stupid help, so keep it to yourself,” she snarls, breaking off into a gallop towards the castle, leaving her sister and her cries of protest rapidly behind her.

* * *

The two girls never mention the incident again, which is just as well, because as Arya had earlier predicted, any time that she sees Mors now, he turns around and leaves, head lowered, like she were some terrible beast ready to attack him by the slightest provocation; a Stark wolf that he never should’ve gotten too close with, no matter if she had been the one who initiated the contact in the first place.

It’s not just that there could never be anything more than friendship between Mors and her, Arya was never naïve enough to think otherwise. But now even the mere possibility of them being friends is out of the question, and that had been the most painful part.

Not that Sansa had cared, or anyone else for that matter. And a year later, the announcement is made on her betrothal with Harrion Karstark, after some discussions and negotiations had taken place betwixt the Lord of the Karhold and Robb. Then the deal is sealed. Karstark will get Arya as his bride and a sumptuous dowry for his house besides; Arya will get—nothing, really. Nothing but a cage, comfortable as it might be.

“You ought to be grateful to Robb,” Sansa says to her. They are sitting together working on Sansa’s wedding dress. Or at least, Sansa is working on it, and Arya has little Neddy on her lap, bouncing him up and down on her knee as the baby chews eagerly on a wooden rattle. “Lord Karstark is one of the most powerful lords of the North, most northern ladies would die to have the opportunity that you’ve been given.”

Arya watches silently as Sansa’s nimble fingers expertly create beautiful figures over the white, rich fabric of the gown. The majority of the work had been done by a seamstress, but Sansa has still wanted to add her own touches in the skirt.

Her sister’s words are nothing new to her; ‘tis all they keep telling her over and over, not only Sansa but also the rest of her family, even Wylla, of which Arya feels especially betrayed for.

And so that year passes, too, and before Arya knows it, her and her family and are making preparations for a journey to the Vale. It has come the time for Sansa to be wed to Ser Harrold Arryn. Robb has been postponing it for a long time now, as a matter of fact; Sansa is already seven-and-ten and of age, but their brother kept insisting that it’d be best to have Sansa stay home with them for a while longer, as to not separate their family so soon, and Mother had agreed.

They go first to White Harbor, and Arya truly appreciates the opportunity this presents her to see Lord Manderly, Wynafryd and the rest of the castle’s household, reencountering old friends and people who aforetime were so dear to her.

The Lord of New Castle is unable to leave his rooms, being ailed with some illness that keeps him confided in bed, and he is, of course, deeply saddened when learning that Wylla had to stay behind. But that had been due to baby Neddy being considered too young still to make such a long travel.

Her nephew had been designated thus as the Stark in Winterfell until the rest of them are back, and Wylla will be effectively ruling from the keep completely alone for the first time. It shall be good opportunity for her to learn, according to Arya’s mother.

When Sansa and Arya are bought up to Lord Manderly’s chamber, they find him laid upon his massive bed, his back popped up against a heap of pillows. Wynafryd is sitting beside him in a rocking chair, keenly applied on some needlework project.

“Ah, my girls,” he calls when he sees them in the doorway, “come here.”

Arya crouches by his side, cradling one of his plump hands in hers, while Sansa sits primly at the edge of the bed.

“Which one of you is marrying?” he asks in a subdued tone, his memory not as sharp as it was a few years ago.

“I am, my lord,” Sansa answers him gently.

The old lord’s beady eyes shine, more alert now. “Aye, you will wed a Valeman, I remember. And how you shall dazzle them all, I am sure, my sweet.”

Sansa leans down to lay one of her hands over Arya’s. “I thank you, my lord.”

Manderly shifts his gaze to address Arya. “You are promised as well, aren’t you, dear?”

Arya feels a slight pang on her chest, a common occurrence anytime Harrion Karstark is mentioned in her presence.

“Arya was betrothed last year to Lord Karstark, Grandfather,” Wynafryd chimes in, given that Arya had not respond in several seconds, the elder girl’s eyes never leaving her embroidery.

“Yes, yes. Young Harry,” Manderly nods in recognition. “A fine husband he shall make, I should think so. Don’t you agree, dear?”

Arya worries on her lip. No, she doesn’t agree—she doesn’t even know the man, not really. But by now she’s discovered that it is fruitless to argue on the matter, so she shan’t bother.

“Indeed he shall, my lord.”

* * *

Arya makes the most of her time in White Harbor, catching up with Wynafryd and going to the beach whenever she can, bringing her back to the days as a young girl, running with her bare feet over the cold, damp sand.

It’s only once she and her family board the ship that is tasked to deliver them to Gulltown that the true nightmare commences.

At five-and-ten years of age, Arya is actually grateful that Robb had decided to delay marrying Sansa off, for if she’d been a year or two younger, and therefore less mature, she probably would’ve lost it long ago and let herself get riled up enough to finally give in on the impulse of throwing Rickon over the deck of the ship and into the vast ocean below. Maybe that way he would finally _shut up_ his damn mouth for once.

The little hellion complains about everything, and it’s insufferable. He didn’t want to come here? Well, that’s too bloody bad, neither did Arya. And it’s not only Rickon she’s miffed with. There’s Robb, who’s become even more irritable and imperious than is usual for him to be nowadays, walking in the deck while he lords over anyone who dares to cross his path.

Then there’s Sansa having an emotional breakdown at least once a day, worrying about the state of her wedding dress and whether or not it can become damaged by the ever-present sway of the ship, and her constant anxiety over the wedding and the possibility of Harry and all his kin not loving her on the spot. Mother tries to reassure her that everything will be alright, but she seems to be secretly troubled about something, even if Arya cannot decipher what it is, and the nonstop nagging coming from both Rickon and Sansa is starting to make their mother crack. Once, in their cabin, Arya heard her snap at a poor maid for bringing her the wrong pair of shoes. She quickly apologized afterwards, of course, but Arya has never seen her mother in such a fidgety mood, not even when they were at war and Father and Robb were away.

Bran is not half as bad as the rest of them, but Arya doesn’t feel too charitable towards him, either. He might not be in the brim of bursting into tears or starting a fistfight with one of the sailors, yet he doesn’t appear to possess the ability at present to get himself to stop talking about southern tourneys and knights, as if he hadn’t already been in the south (unlike Arya or even Sansa) and met several of them before.

Despite it all, Arya tries to be on her best behavior. She avoids rolling her eyes at Robb, being unkind to Sansa or picking fights with Rickon. She had promised that much to Wylla, before parting. Arya misses her goodsister something awful.

When they at last disembark in the bustling docks of Gulltown, Arya feels like falling to her knees and kissing the ground beneath her. She has no idea where she can find a godswood, or even if there’s any in this foul smelling southern city, but she’s so grateful for finally being off that stupid ship that she’s half a mind to go to a sept and light a few candles to give her thanks to the Seven instead.

Gerold Grafton, the Lord of Gulltowner, is there to receive them, alongside his son and heir, Gyles. Both men are perfectly courteous, in the most painful over exaggerated southern way, at least in Arya’s opinion. On the other hand, Sansa is delighted; getting her first real taste of what is awaiting her at Lord Arryn’s court.

Arya doesn’t feel exactly impressed, but goes along with it, and when Ser Gyles takes her hand and gives it an elegant kiss, bowing to her gracefully, she can’t negate the slight flush that spreads on her cheeks, or how her breath stops a little.

He’s handsome, Gyles Grafton. He doesn’t resemble his father much, only sharing with him the same dirty blond hair and green eyes. But he is tall and lean were his father is short and robust, and carries himself with a cool, almost detached demeanor, unlike the boisterous and loud lord.

The trip to the Gates of the Moon is far smoother than the previous one they took by sea, and shorter, mainly because they’re making it on horseback and by carriage, instead of a ship. Sansa and Jeyne Poole spend the whole time gushing about everything and anything they see; from the landscape and the buildings to the different kinds of food they’re given. Well, the Valemen can make good bread, Arya will give them that, white and crusty at the same time, and full of walnuts and dried fruit.

They are, of course, escorted to their destination by Lord Grafton and his son. The later flirts with Arya the whole way there. She idly plays along. It’s nice to have a boy pay that much attention to her again, even though she knows none of it is real. And it feels different than it was with Mors, less innocent, perhaps. It might be because she’s promised to another, though she hadn’t been the one to make any promises, she reminds herself bitterly. Still, in the eyes of Westeros, Arya is viewed as the property of one single man who she’s barely even spoken to. She is forbidden, and being labeled as such is perhaps what makes her appealing for someone like Gyles Grafton, as he doesn’t seem the kind to have ever been denied much of anything in his life.

Arya wonders at what moment Sansa’s admonishment will come regarding her being ‘too familiar’ with a man that isn’t her betrothed, but it never comes. Mayhaps her sister is just unable to fathom that the son of a lord, a young knight, would ever dare touch so much as a lady’s ungloved hand.

For the most part, she would be right; Gyles has been perfectly respectful around Arya, and they only really have a chance to talk during the day when they are riding. He had expressed himself shocked by the fact that Arya knows her way so well around a horse, as if he expects women to only be able to move themselves around by using carriages and giving dainty steps in their sleepers. She feels certain level of satisfaction in providing him wrong.

But she’s also aware of the glint he gets in his eyes, clear as day, when he looks at her, lingering in parts of her body that men had never look at before.

Arya knows she’s lucky; she’s heard a few stories in Winterfell, told in whispers and covered behind the hands of maidservants or even ladies who had served at one point or another under House Stark. They tell tales about girls being defiled by horrid men even in their own homes, she’s heard of the many dangers a woman can be subjected to if a man decides he wants her, no matter her own desires or what can happen to her afterwards. But she grew up secure within the walls of her family’s keep and then Lord Manderly’s, and as the daughter of a widely respected Lord of Winterfell and the sister of another, every man who’d ever set foot on her family’s land had known her as little Arya Underfoot, a girl who must be coddled and protected, not look at and coveted.

And that’s the way Ser Gyles looks at her. Not all the time, but often enough for her to take notice. She’s not completely repulsed by his interest in her; it’s not as if he were a perverted old man leering at her from afar. He’s just a few years older than her, in fact. It makes her feel near as if she were pretty. And for Arya, growing up in the shadow of her beautiful sister, it’s a rather welcome feeling.

Arriving finally at the Gates of the Moon is like being transported into a whole new world. Everything feels so foreign to her. It’s not exactly the place. The keep is not that different from a northern one. Perhaps it is in its layout, but stone is still stone.

The inside of it is not overly opulent; like she’d heard so many northern lords scoff when talking about the many excess of the south. Yes, it’s decidedly less austere than what they’re used to in the North, but southerners also don’t have the necessity of saving resources than the northerners do, so Arya can’t very well blame them if they want to indulge every now and then.

Being honest, Arya doesn’t believe it to be the kind of life she would like to lead, but Sansa is utterly enchanted. Her sister goes around with a dreamy sort of air about her, being introduced to all of Jon Arryn’s court, including the many Vale young noblewomen who will be under her service once she weds Ser Harry. Some of them are perfectly polite and even friendly, but others regard Sansa with a type of weariness and suspicious that suggests they were expecting her to look and behave like some kind wildling woman from beyond the Wall. Yet Sansa always carries herself with the utmost graciousness.

Courtesy is a lady’s armor; Arya’s heard her sister say numerous times.

And a dammed strong armor is what Sansa shall need when dealing with Lysa Arryn. Their aunt doesn’t lose any opportunity to remind them that they are only here because of the death of her son, almost as if she personally blames Arya and her whole family for it.

The other thing that Aunt Lysa enjoys telling them, her words often times especially aimed at Arya’s mother, is that unlike Father, her husband had actually returned back to her from the war, and she gets this cruel and satisfied twinkle in her eyes when she sees Mother’s expression fall down in sadness, even if she tries her best to conceal it behind a courteous, pained smile. It makes Arya so angry she has to use all her willpower not to break every single promise she gave to Wylla and leap across the room so she can slap her aunt right across that smug, ugly face.

Arya supposes that so long as her mother doesn’t let Aunt Lysa’s words get to her, neither should she. They are here to support Sansa, to help her get through this last stage of her betrothal. Arya is sure her sister already fancies she’s half in love with Harrold, blushing prettily anytime he so much as enters her vicinity. Ser Harry seems to be well pleased with Sansa, too; singing never-ending praises about her beauty, grace, and his good fortune of having her soon become his wife.

How much of what he says is the truth, she cannot know, but he doesn’t think he’s a bad person. Perhaps a tad self-centered and entitled, although Arya has come to realize that it is characteristic of men to believe themselves entitled to things by rights of laws and the will of the gods; being it women’s bodies, not just their wives, or their children’s futures, even the illegitimate ones.

Doesn’t Harrold have a bastard daughter hidden away somewhere in the Vale? Then again, Arya’s own father had a bastard son, and he was a good man, Arya loved him so. She wants to trust Harry, trust that he will be able to make Sansa happy, it would destroy her otherwise. Arya doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want her sister suffering in her marriage.

A tourney is taking place to celebrate the wedding, starting two days before the ceremony will occur and concluding a day after. Huge velvet tents were erected to protect participants and public alike from the cold weather outside.

On the first day, Arya trails after Sansa and Jeyne into the stands, but before she can begin to climb the steps, Glyles approaches her, already fully geared in his gleaming armor, helm tucked under one arm.

“Lady Arya,” he greets with a flourishing bow, “may I have the honor of wearing your favor during the joust?”

Behind her, she can hear Sansa give a small gasp. When she turns around, she notices her sister giving her a subtle nod of encouragement, while Jeyne’s bows are knit together in anger.

Arya revels in the small moment of triumph, petty as it is, over her childhood tormentor. No one had asked Jeyne for her favor. Harrold had asked Sansa for hers earlier, as was expected, and now Arya. But not Jeyne.

She feigns thinking about it for a short moment, then moves up her hands to unity a strip of lace she’d been using to keep her hair from getting in her way, making it tumble down freely over her neck and shoulders. It’s pure white in color, matching the fur trimming the sleeves of her blue dress.

“Here,” she says simply, putting it over his stretched palm, “I am sure you shall do well even without it, Ser, but good luck.”

He brings it over to his mouth to kiss, never breaking the eye contact with Arya, as she tries to hide the blush that starts to rise over her face. “With a gift such as this, I shan’t have any need of luck, my lady.”

Arya huffs under her breath, knowing exactly where he’s trying to get, so she just smiles politely and goes up into the stands, taking a seat beside her sister. Sansa takes her by the arm immediately, with a big, excited grin on her face.

“He behaved so gallantly, don’t you think?” Sansa asks in a hushed voice so that only Arya and Jeyne, seated by her other side, can hear her.

“That he did, but alas, I’m a taken woman,” Arya says with a false infliction of sadness in her voice.

“As if you would care,” Jeyne says nastily, her arms crossed and her posture rigid. Arya leans over her chair, glaring at the other girl, reading a vicious retort, but Sansa raises a hand before she can give it.

“Now, don’t be unkind, Jeyne,” Sansa chides gently. “Of course nothing can ever come of it, but that adds an element of… anguish to it all,” she shifts her gaze back to Arya, her eyes intense and even childlike. “He shall carry you on his heart forever.”

Arya rather doubts that to be the case, but still forces herself to smile faintly, though it comes out more like a grimace than anything else. Life is not as song, and she’s never believed otherwise, yet she hopes her sister can carry on those ideals within her for as long as possible.

* * *

The day of the marriage comes at last, and Sansa looks quite simply breathtaking. Her gown is pure white, with gleaming pearls sewn in the bodice, and long, belled sleeves trimmed with gray. The best part of the dress is definitely the skirt, long and flowing, beautiful embroidered designs of red weirwood leaves masterfully embedded onto the soft fabric.

The smile Sansa wears is what makes her stand out from all other brides before her, or so Arya reckons. A smile so big and bright it illuminates all around her quite effortlessly.

It’s not the first wedding Arya has ever attended, that was Robb’s; but during that time, though she’d been present in body, her mind had been far away, mourning for Jon and, to a lesser extent, Father, resentful of every single person she so much as heard laugh near her. How could they be happy, when the world had lost so much of its color and warmth?

The only thing she remembers is sitting at the high table with her siblings, a buzzing noise resonating painfully and constantly in her ears, trying to fight back tears and the impulse to break out in screams anytime she saw Robb and Wylla smile forcedly at their guests. She supposes she ate, but the food tasted like sand in her own mouth. She might have been spoken to, but the voices just bounced off of her. Someone might have asked her to dance, only to receive no answer at all out of her.

But tonight she eats, the delicious bread and the creamy cheese and different kinds of meats, and she washes it all down with sweet hippocras from the Reach, drinking it until her insides warm and her head begins to feel heavy. And she talks, joking around with her brothers and with the other girls in their table, at least the ones that hadn’t been mean to Sansa, until they’re all laughing like crazy without even remembering the reason.

She dances, too. First with Bran, who twirls her around the room, both giggling like little children. Next is the turn of her uncle Edmure, who had arrived the day before, much to the apparent relief of Mother, as she no longer would have to face Aunt Lysa’s tempers by herself.

Arya is surprised by how big of a resemblance Robb has with their uncle, though the older man seems to be less weighted down by responsibilities than Robb is, or at the very least he’s better at pretending at it.

He recently had a child, Arya recalls. A little girl called Minisa by his Tarly wife. When he returns to them, he will be taking Bran with him. She imagines Bran will like that, to live in the south, and learn the ways of knighthood by not only Uncle Edmure but also their great-uncle the Blackfish, who had made his name as a renowned knight and warrior across all Seven Kingdoms many season ago.

Arya knows her little brother still enjoys hearing gaudy tales about chivalrous deeds and heroic feats and daring rescues of woeful maidens, but ever since he returned from the war, he looks to be less enthusiastic about them. She can’t really blame him. Wasn’t the man who killed their father a knight? And he did it in a most decidedly dishonorable way. Not to mention Jaime Lannister, breaking his sacred bows of defending the king from harm and obey his command to commit adultery with none other than the queen, his own sister. That’s not honorable, Arya simply cannot consider it such, not even if they were still ruled by the Targaryens.

Later in the evening, she’s sitting in the lower tables, conversing with Mya Stone. She likes Uncle Jon’s ward, she reminds her of Jon Snow in a queer sort of way, not only that she’s bastard-born as Jon was, but also that she doesn’t let herself be looked down by others for it. Like Jon, Mya appears to be acutely aware of her birth status, but she seems hold on more ferociously to her own sense of worth because of it.

Mya makes a discreet gesture with her chin towards their right and when Arya looks up, she sees Gyles approaching them.

He’s here to ask for a dance, of course. And she accepts, of course.

Arya has come to appreciate the simple yet intricate pleasures of dancing. She’s not as good as Sansa—more like she’s not very good at properly following the steps of a line, her feet seem to be much to stubborn and willful for that. Even so, she lets herself get lost in the music and merriment surrounding her, and the effects that the alcohol she’d ingested had provoked in her.

When she comes spinning back into Gyles, he takes her by the waist, in a much too intimate manner to be considered appropriate, but everyone is too distracted or drunk or both to take notice, and Arya doesn’t push him away, even when he leans down to whisper in her ear.

“When they call for the bedding, I’ll come find you.”

“Why?” Arya half asks, half hiccups, confused.

He grins, all roguish, and her face reddens not only for the effects of the wine. “Because I would much rather spend that time with you. Isn’t that clear by now, my lady?”

No, it isn’t. He’s never made any mention of wanting to spend any lengthened periods of time with her in particular. Arya would rather those kinds of sentiments were made verbally explicit to her, really. Saves everybody a lot of time, if you ask her.

But when people do start calling for the bedding, Gyles goes to her in the middle of all the commotion and grabs her by the hand, signaling for her to follow him out through one of the smaller exists of the hall. Arya looks back guiltily at her sister being carried away by some bawdy Valeman while many others go after them, cheering and shouting lewd comments at her retiring, mortified form. She glimpses Bran trying to fight his way to the front of the crowd, but there’s just so much a boy of thirteen can do to help in this type of situation. Or she. Arya knows Sansa would be horrified if she were to even dare to try; she’d say it not proper for Arya to intervene, that the bedding ceremony is something she absolutely wants, that Arya is just ruining everything as always.

So she follows Gyles instead, even though there’s a faint voice at the back of her head warning her not to do it. When they have advanced a safe distance from the feasting hall, he corners her against a wall in the deserted hallway, the sounds of the music and chatter of the guests reaching them in their otherwise secluded refuge, leaning forward until their noses are almost touching. He looks at her for a moment, expectantly, and she’s fully aware of what he’s trying to get.

She lets him have it. Lets him kiss her. Again and again and again. His lips are demanding and greedy over her own, his hands taking a viselike grip on her hips, pulling her towards him. She tries to give as good as she’s getting, gripping him by the collar of his doublet and biting hard over his lower lip.

Part of her feels wicked, as wicked as Jeyne Poole would often-times accuses her of being when they were children, when Arya would not finish her embroidery or would get mud on her clothes. She’s promised to another, isn’t she? And yet here she is, doing this, while being mightily good at ignoring that stupid voice in her head that has become louder for some ludicrous reason. ‘Tis just kisses, there’s no harm in that.

His lips soon leave her mouth to begin trailing a wet path onto her jaw, following a directly into her ear, breath fanning the sensitive skin of her lobe.

“Let us go to my rooms.”

Arya freezes. She turns to stone. The weight of his words only fully sinking in once he grips one of her hands, tugging at it with eagerness.

She jerks away from him as if burned. “ _No_.” Her voice comes out brusque instead of daunted, which she’s proud of.

Her response is obviously not what Gyles is expecting, because his gaze darkens, the torches that lighten the corridor casting shadows over his face, turning it grotesque. How she’d thought him handsome before? She doesn’t know. She’d been stupid, and then drunk. But she’s neither of those things at the moment.

“Oh, don’t go now acting the virtuous maiden,” he sneers venomously, looking down at her menacingly. She takes a step back, just in case, although she refuses to let herself be cowed by the likes of this _boy_.

“I’m not acting like anything,” she spats, “and I also don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

“Yet you followed me all the way here, didn’t you?” he reminds her, a nasty, mocking smirk forming on his mouth, the same mouth she’d just been kissing moments ago. Now the only thing she wants to do is give him a good smack. Maybe she ought to.

Before she can do anything of the sort, rambunctious laughter pours in from the other end of the hallway, veering in a corner. Gyles hastily sticks up against the wall, so the two of them won’t be seen by the newcomers. Arya’s anger boils over more. He doesn’t get too act all noble now, she knows that if they get caught in this compromising position, he shan’t hesitate to put all the blame onto her, ruining her reputation in the process. It won’t matter what she has to say in her defense, people will believe him over her. He’s a man, after all.

At the same time, Arya’s glad he’s not too close to her, else she would have to shove him right into the floor, no matter if that would ensure they be discovered, consequences be damned.

She turns to face him, and he’s looking at her as well, now more incredulous than anything else, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend under which kind of logic her mind had been working.

“You never truly believed I wanted you just for some kisses?” he asks softly, the off-key voices of the nearby men loudly singing ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ almost drowning the sound of his words.

Arya doesn’t answer at first. She raises her chin instead; that same haughty pose she’s seen her mother use so many times before when confronting men who think they can intimidate her just because she’s a woman. 

“It matters not what you wanted, that’s the only thing you will ever have from me,” she answers finally, her voice all steel. “Goodnight, Ser.”

With that she starts to walk towards the group of men, quickly and with determination, all of whom bow to her drunkenly as she passes them by. She doesn’t slow down her pace, nor does she look back, until she reaches the rooms she’s been given by House Royce for the duration of her stay.

Up until tonight, she’s been sharing them with Sansa, but that shall no longer be the case. Sansa is now in a bigger, more comfortable chamber with her new husband. Arya truly hopes her sister’s first bedding experience is as lovely and as perfect as she’s dreamed of all her life. The gods better let one of them enjoy this night, because Arya would much rather prefer to forget it ever happened.

* * *

In the morning, the first thing Arya does is go find her mother and sister.

They’re, as expected, in Sansa’s rooms, as the day is just starting and everyone is getting ready. Mother is asking Sansa which gown she would like to use for the day, while a few maids are busy striping the bed off the sheets, doubtless with the explicit purpose of reporting back to Aunt Lysa if there’s any maiden blood in them. Arya knows if there’s no blood it doesn’t mean anything, lots of girls can lose their maidenhood in the saddle just as easily as in their husbands’ bed, yet for as short a time as she’s known her aunt, she has come to realize that she wouldn’t readily pass an opportunity to make a mean stab at Sansa, even for something as unsubstantial as that, and even if it means alienating herself with the future Lady of the Vale, or Lord. Then again, Lysa Arryn doesn’t appear to possess any kind of measure of foresight.

Sansa chooses the fine dress that is made in Arryn colors, of course. Mother had been silly for asking at all, Arya reckons, making her way over to the dressing table in which Sansa is sitting, meticulously combining her long, auburn locks.

“Harrold left early?” she asks her as a form of greeting, sitting by her side in the stool, wide enough to fit both girls close together.

Sansa smiles sweetly, pulling the comb out of her hair and down to her lap so as to give Arya her full attention. “Yes, but he’ll be waiting for me in the hall so we can break our fast together.” She sounds excited and a little bit dreamy at the prospect, her cheeks acquiring a lovely tint of pink over them.

Arya can hear Mother indicating to a maid were to put some of the items that are inside one of Sansa’s trunks. These are the chambers she will be residing in until the end of the winter, when she and the rest of Lord Arryn’s court can move back to the Eyrie. They are quite nice, Arya thinks, all rich, colorful tapestries and dark wooden furniture. She can imagine her sister living very comfortably here, and isn’t that what’s most important?

“He was so good with me last night,” Sansa says, unprompted, which brings Arya out of her thoughts. “I think I love him already, silly as it might sound. My only wish is for him to love me the same way as I do him.” She looks at Arya with so much sincerity in her blue eyes it takes her aback a little. She’s not used to Sansa opening herself up in such a way, not to her at least, and the same is true on Arya’s part. That’s just not an aspect of their relationship with each other, even if they no longer fight constantly like they did as children.

Arya tries to smile as reassuringly as she can, though. “He’d be a fool not to,” she says with as much conviction as she can muster, feeling a pinch of satisfaction bloom within her when her sister’s eyes start to shine.

“Oh, ‘tis such a wonderful feeling, to be in love,” Sansa says, taking one of Arya’s hands between her own and gripping it warmly. “When you’re wed yourself, Arya, you shall be as happy as I am now.”

Arya feels a lump begin to form at her throat. She’s glad Sansa can hold onto that kind of optimism, but she’s always felt different regarding love. Love is not a song. Not to Arya. She’s not even sure what love is.

She supposes it could be how Mother would often smile softly at Father whenever they were together, or how he would put his arm gently and protectively on her back, listening intently to everything she had to say. Though now Father is dead, no matter how much he and Mother loved one another, so Arya thinks love can’t be an all-powerful force that automatically grants a person a continual inflow of bliss, regardless of what Sansa might believe.

Besides, Arya is not the kind of girl a man can come to love. Not in the romantic fashion, that is. Men love her alright: she’s their sister or their daughter or their friend, and that’s fine with her. She’s not like Sansa or Mother. They get to be loved like that, not her.

Yet Arya takes pride in being a simple and practical girl. What happened yesterday—that was a lapse of her judgement, along with far too many cups of wine. She had fancied she could be the heroine of some stupid song and be worthy of the love and devotion of the handsome and chivalrous knight. Oh, she’s not in love with Gyles, never even came close to it, but a small part of her took satisfaction in the attentions he paid upon her, and had allowed herself to be carried away by his charm. She should have known better, should have known that entitled, greedy boys are never satisfied with kisses alone.

Yet Arya has always been of the stubborn, obstinate sort, so she had managed to foolishly blind herself to the truth. She recalls Septa Mordane scolding her as a child for her unruly behavior, and warning her that she would be lucky if her poor lord father could ever find a man who would be willing to take her to wife, all the while Jeyne Poole would snicker under her breath that what Arya would be lucky for is if she ever found a man who would be even willing to look her way.

Well, back then, though the words had been hurtful, she’d been consoled by the thought that she had no need for love or a husband, thank you very much. She had her family, and Winterfell. What else could she need?

And now, at five-and-ten, and almost a woman grown, she has lost part of her family, and she will in fact be gaining a husband, some grim northern lord who probably derides any notion of songs and romance as southern nonsense—yet love, no; she can do very well without that.

But she cannot tell such a thing to Sansa, it would be too cruel, so she keeps her thoughts to herself, and gives her sister her brightest, fakest smile, though Sansa doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes, we shall be very happy.”

* * *

**(Now) 'Cause I like to keep my issues strong, it's always darkest before the dawn…**

On the day Arya Stark is to be married, she wakes up with a headache. She can hear that someone has entered her room, yet the pulsing pain behind her eyelids and temples prevents her from checking who it might be, not feeling able to open her eyes one inch to take a peek.

“I know you’re awake, Arya. And by the Seven, what are you wearing?”

Oh, it’s her mother. That’s just splendid. She sounds vexed, too. Even better.

Arya lets out a strangled, tired sound from the back of her throat, hoping against hope that Mother will just leave so she might doze off again.

No such luck.

“And how many times have I told you not to leave your cloak lying on the floor? It will get ripped by the time the year’s passed.” Hearing her mother say that makes the girl sprang up to a sitting position, wincing for the abrupt movement and the sunlight hitting her square in the eyes.

“Mother, you need to leave the room.”

Her mother looks at her for a long moment, pursing her lips slightly and raising a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “I beg your pardon, child?”

“No, I mean so I can change,” Arya amends hastily. “You know, so I can put on a clean shift. I imagine you ordered a bath to be bought up for me, didn’t you? You wouldn’t want people to know I slept like this.”

“Yes, but why are you in those clothes at all?” asks Mother, skeptical, though at least her irritation with Arya seems to have lessened.

“I just went for a walk last night,” Arya lies deftly. “I couldn’t sleep… for all the—excitement.”

Under normal circumstances, Arya is positive Mother wouldn’t let her off the hook this easily, but given that it the day of her wedding, she seems to take some pity on her youngest daughter.

“Right,” Mother says, giving a long suffering sight but turning for the door nonetheless, “I will go check on that bath. You better be ready by the time I’m back.”

“I will, Mother,” Arya assures with the happiest smile she can plaster on so early in the day. Although, judging by the position of the sun, it appears to be actually rather late into the morning. Mother had allowed Arya to sleep in. She really had found it in her heart to be lenient.

No sooner had her mother left the room, closing the door behind her, that Arya bolts out of her bed and dashes on until she reaches her cloak, lying on the floor, and underneath it—Needle.

How careless of her. She’d been so absorbed by thoughts of her conversation with Karstark—no, _Harry_ , he told her to call him Harry—that she’d completely forgotten to get her sword back into its hidden place after she returned to her room.

She’d also been distracted because they kissed… _oh_ —she’d really gone and done that! Well, there’s no turning back now; she made a deal with him. They even kissed on it. She flinches at the memory. What had she been thinking? Hadn’t she learned her lesson yet? She had acted in exactly the same idiotic way as when she was a girl of fifteen, thinking she could play act at romance with a boy she barely knew in the Vale.

Except Harrion Karstark isn’t some pampered southern boy, and he doesn’t have to put up a pretense of caring for her to get her to take him into her bed, it shall be his bed too, by rights.

Though, she’s being unfair with him. Harry may not care that much for her—and it’s quite obvious that he will never come to love her—but he has already demonstrated he’s not completely indifferent to her wishes or opinions, if what he said to her the previous night is any indication. That’s actually more than she ever expected to have.

Yes, Arya reassures herself as she puts back Needle under the tile in the floor, she can accept him as her husband. He promised her he will not take Needle away from her, and that she shall always have his respect. That’s all she will ever ask of him, she silently vows.

She hurries then to change out of her old clothes and into a clean shift, as she told her mother she would. She doesn’t mind taking baths naked if she’s left alone to do so, but she knows that won’t happen today; people will be getting in and out of her room nonstop, helping her to get ready.

Her speculation is further proved when Mother re-enters the room, accompanied by Beth Cassel and a small army of maidservants, all armed with a metal tub, buckets full of steaming water, combs and brushes, and, more importantly, her dress and maiden cloak.

Later, she’s soaking in the tub, playing absentmindedly with a few bubbles that pop up in the now lukewarm water, while a maid finishes with the combing of her wet hair, when Wylla appears in the doorway, with Wynafryd in tow and a satisfied grin on her face. Wylla is covering her hair with a green veil in the most scandalous gaudy shade imaginable, and she looks completely at ease with it. She might no longer have her hair dyed green; leaving it to its natural blonde color, but Wylla Stark still enjoys making an impression whenever she enters a room.

“I have surprise for you, my dear,” she announces in a singsong voice. Arya notices then that she’s hiding something behind her back.

“Shut the door!” Arya exclaims, shielding herself with her hands; even if she’s still using her shift, wet as it is, it doesn’t cover much.

Wylla rolls her eyes in mild annoyance, but still compiles with Arya’s demand. When she turns back around, Arya catches sight of what the older girl was trying to hide. A flower crown, made with different kinds of flowers: bellflowers, forget-me-nots, gorses and even some pretty winter roses that complete the piece.

“Do you like it?” Wylla asks, while Arya is helped out of the water and wrapped in a warm towel.

“Yes,” Arya responds, going behind a screen so she can change into a clean, dry linen shift. “You did it?

Wylla huffs loudly. “Of course I did it!” Arya can hear the indignation coming from her goodsister at the other side of the screen. “It wouldn’t be this pretty if someone else had done it.”

“Oh, Wylla, pray don’t humble yourself so,” Wynafryd quips acerbically.

“Sister, you know pride is a sin among the Seven,” Wylla snorts.

“One that you never partake in,” Arya says with a small laugh, coming from behind the screen. Wylla rolls her eyes again, and is in the process of readying some cutting reply, but Mother doesn’t have patience for such childish dalliance.

“Thank you, Wylla,” says Mother in a diplomatic tone, “it’s a beautiful crown. And it’s a good thing you and Wynafryd are here. Gods know we need all the help we can get.”

Honestly, with the way Mother speaks, it sounds as if she’s deemed Arya a lost cause.

* * *

As it turns out, in the end Arya is not, in fact, a lost cause.

It takes a well over two hours for her to be made ready to wed, though there was a break in which she and her companions took a hearty, late breakfast, and quite a few disputes were broken between the Manderly sisters when they wouldn’t agree on how to style Arya’s hair, both brushing and twisting and yanking on her poor scalp until they were satisfied.

They had settled in the end for two intricate braids beginning on each side of her temples, and connecting at the back of her head, tied by a delicate gray ribbon. The rest of her brown hair is brushed straight down her back. Simple, yet pretty, and Wylla’s flower crown enhances the look quite prettily, or so Mother had told her.

In fact, Mother had even made a comment on how pretty Arya looks. At that moment, she could almost believe it, although she never quite does, no matter from who the compliment might come from. She recalls how Father and Jon used to tell her she was pretty when she was a child, though of course they would; they were her family and they loved her—and yet, coming from Mother... it nearly manages to quiet down that ugly, insistent voice that constantly reminds Arya that she could never be that, let alone beautiful—that no matter how she clothes herself, underneath it all she’s still just a horseface.

Her dress is almost all white, fabricated with the softest lamb’s wool, while the skirt is long and straight, embroidered with designs of delicate winter roses in blue. Her favorite part is the bodice, she likes that it fasteners at the front, the laces are of a gray hemp material, beneath the strings, more of that same exquisite flower patterns is shown. The sleeves are long and narrow, trimmed with gray ermine fur to match the laces.

She’s wearing fine jewelry, too. Silver earrings and a pearl necklace around her neck. Wylla was even able to convince her to have her cheeks and lips tinted a rosy hue with the help of a paste made of crushed berries and petals.

The final, most important garment is her maiden cloak, white as snow except for the great, gray snarling wolf at its center, two gleaming stones serving as the beast’s eyes. It had been made of soft, warm fleece, lovely in its simplicity.

She stands there, before her mirror, dressed more grandly than she has ever before, painted and perfumed and emblazoned, and she feels so utterly foreign in her own body. If this is being pretty, even to the eyes of others, she doesn’t like it very much; is not comfortable for her. The only exception being the cloak, a snug weight over her shoulders, like her father’s embrace.

It shall last only the one day; she consoles herself, trying to cover herself completely with the cloak. After that, she will return to her ordinary, simple gowns. Besides, Harrion already saw her in old men’s clothing, and he didn’t throw a fit, didn’t run to Robb to demand the betrothal be called off at once. If after seeing her like that he still wants to make her his wife, Arya imagines he won’t mind if she doesn’t dress as if she were about to be presented at the king’s court on a daily basis. She also doesn’t have him sorted as a particularly ostentatious kind of man, so they are matched quite well in that aspect.

Robb is awaiting her outside the godswood, dressed up in his finest Stark regalia, all gray furs and leathers, and a long cloak of his own. He smiles lightly when he sees her, taking her hand.

“Oh, here you are, Arya,” he says with obvious relief.

Arya makes a face. “Honestly, everyone keeps doubting I will show up.”

“It’s not that,” Robb protests, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on her head, surprising her a little. “I know it should be Father here, not me,” he says in a sobering tone. “I told the same thing to Sansa, when she wed, yet—“, he pauses, straightens his back, and offers Arya his arm. “Are you ready?

Arya takes it, grabs tightly onto it, and lets her big brother lead her inside the godswood.

The guests are assembled in two lines, forming a path leading straight onto the heart tree. Awaiting her at the end of it is Harrion Karstark. Attired all in black, he could almost pass for a brother of the Watch, wherein not for all the details in white his clothing has. His black tunic is lined with white on the sleeves and collar, a heavy belt on his waist, holding a longsword, and adorned with the Karstark sun at its center. On his shoulders rests a heavy cloak made of wolf’s skin.

“Who comes? Who comes before the gods?" His voice is loud and clear against the otherwise complete silence.

Robb responds in the same definite manner, “Arya of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

Harrison’s blue-gray eyes turn to look at her, holding her gaze. “Harrion of House Karstark, Lord of the Karhold. I claim her. Who gives her?"

"Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, her brother.” Robb glances down at her, his fingers grazing affectionately over her chuckles. "Lady Arya, will you take this man?"

Her eyes are still connected with Harry’s; he hasn’t averted them in all that time, and is looking at her keenly, almost as if holding his own breath.

Arya bites her lip, starting to be overcome by trepidation, then—she remembers their talk, his frank words, his kindness, and those thoughts give her the push necessary to boldly say, “I take this man.”

His skin is cold to the touch, she notices when Robb joins their hands, as they kneel side by side before the heart tree, their heads bowed in prayer. She doesn’t dare look over at him, but she prays all the same. Before, she’d been worried that once here, she wouldn’t know what to pray for; but she’s already been in this godswood, in front of this same weirwood, with him, and all that he had heretofore said to her, she wants him to keep. She wants him to be the man he was the previous night, open and honest and not shielded behind courtesies, even if she might not always like or agree on what he has to say. That is her only desire.

After sufficient time has passed, both get up from their kneeling position. Arya has to subtly rely on his support to do so, grabbing him by the arm, her jittery legs making her unstable on her own feet. Harry doesn’t appear to have noticed her nervousness, or he’s doing a good job at pretending at it—she’s grateful for that. This is nearly over, she reminds herself, watching Harry’s brother, Eddard, step forward with the bridal cloak, the white sunburst on black of House Karstark displayed proudly on the garment. She feels Robb’s hands on her shoulders, beginning to unfasten her Stark cloak, and she holds it by the sides feebly, until she senses her brother’s soft tug on it. She lets go. It feels as if a part of her is abandoning her with it.

But she doesn’t get the chance to dwell on it; all eyes are now landed on her, expectantly. She turns around slowly, giving her back to Harrion, allowing him to cloak by her. She shudders a little when he pushes her hair to the side, letting it fall over one shoulder, and he covers her with his own house colors, his movements brisk and precise, like she has come to know is his nature. This new cloak weighs much differently on her, in a way that Arya is unsure if she will ever get used to.

Harry rounds her over to face him, and she closes her eyes as he bends down to give her a soft kiss. It’s barely a brush of lips, though she still feels it. To her, it’s different from the first one they’d shared, this one being stiff and awkward, but she suspects it to be more due the audience they now have. She feels rather ill at ease by the attention herself, something that only intensifies by the noises of applauses and cheers coming from behind.

They quickly separate, and although Arya already knew what was to come next, when Harry scoops her up in his arms, she still lets out a squealing yelp. He carries her with nary a difficulty out of the godswood, the gentle rays of the spring sun shining upon them. It hadn’t snowed today—she recalls Old Nan saying that no snow on the day of a wedding can be seen as a good omen, bringing good luck and prosperity for the couple.

She clings to his neck, flushing profoundly, and half conceals her face against his chest so that he can’t glimpse her blush, yet she can’t ignore how warm she feels in his arms, or the musky scent she can detect coming from him. She focuses her attention instead on the people she sees following after them, still rowding in applause. Little Jocelyn is at the front, by the hand of Alys, spotting a cute white dress with puffed sleeves and a heartfelt, happy grin.

“We’re almost there,” Harry tells her in a low murmur, his hot breath hitting her cheek. She blushes all the more, but gives him a slight nod in response. When he deposits her carefully back into the floor, they’re inside the Great Hall’s gallery. Arya rushers over to her place in the high table, hoping her cheeks can cool down on the way there. She doesn’t even bother to check if her new husband has followed after her.

She hates it. She had made the silent promise of not letting herself be overwhelmed by the whole situation, and up until the moment in which she’d been cloaked, she wagers managed to maintain on her resolve, yet it feels as if the reality of it all is finally fully catching up with her. She’s wedded, and soon enough, she shall also be bedded. After that she will have to leave her home, Winterfell, along with everything she’s ever known. ‘Tis just too much, too soon. It makes her feel terribly young.

Harry takes a seat beside her at the center of the table; the place of honor for the newlyweds, and smiles tentatively at her. She returns his smile as genuinely as she can, forcing down the ache in her chest. She will be alright, she repeats in her mind. Everything will be alright.

Next thing she knows, they’re surrounded by well-wishers and felicitations. Harry is patted several times in the back, men congratulating him on the grand achievement of getting a maiden of House Stark for bride, given that none had been married into a northern household for near a century. The Greatjon comes to her and kisses her hand sloppily, telling her how glad he is that Harry shan’t be alone no more, and that he knows his granddaughter is in good hands. Those words only make her anxiousness grow a tent fold.

Then Jocey appears at the other side of the table, Daryn Hornwood picking her up so she can talk to them at the same level.

“Look, Arya, I’m using the ribbon you gave me!” Jocey shows her the white strip neatly tied into a bow and holding part her hair away from her face. Opposite to the girl’s dark hair, it really resembles the colors of House Karstark.

Jocey’s happiness is so infectious that Arya can’t help but return her smile in earnest. “You look lovely, sweetling,” she says, leaning over the table to tap fondly at her small nose.

They don’t talk much during the feast, her husband and she. He regularly asks her if she wants her cup refilled with wine, a fine Arbor gold, as he is tasked to do, but she doesn’t feel much like drinking; she’s discovered long ago alcohol is not prone to sit well with her, and she shall need her wits about her, tonight more than ever.

He converses, though with other people, and he eats as well, all the different meats they’re served, such as venison, pork, lamb, roasted mutton, and lots and lots of ham, along with several kinds of breads and vegetables. He always makes sure she’s given the best, most tender parts, stuffing her plate whenever it empties, although that doesn’t happen often. She hasn’t got too much of an appetite either.

Mostly, she fidgets with her bridal cloak, still draped on her shoulders. She’s sitting on top of it, and she lays the edges over her legs, skimming her fingers through the soft black wool, trying, again and again, to get used to its sensation.

The lower tables are being moved to the side, in preparation for dancing, and Arya notices the musicians begin to prepare their instruments on a corner of the feasting hall. That wouldn’t be a problem, save the fact that Arya knows she and Harry are expected to open the first line, and she inevitably will mess up. She’s not terrible at it, but she’s far from good, let alone able to lead a whole round of dancing. That’s something Sansa excels at and enjoys, not Arya. For starters, Sansa had bothered to pay attention to the lessons they were given back at White Harbor, while Arya had been too busy looking longingly out the window and wishing she could go outside to take a ride.

Well, it’s no matter; Sansa is not here, and even if she were, she still wouldn’t be tasked to lead the first dance, better at it though she may be, because it is Arya the one who’d just been married. It is her who—

“For Lord and Lady Karstark.”

Arya hadn’t noticed the moment in which Robb stood up and raised his cup in toast, too concentrated with her own reeling thoughts to pay much mind to anything else. It takes a moment for her to realize her brother is referring to her.

Lady Karstark. That is her. A title she now holds and that others will use when addressing her.

She quickly gets up from her seat, raising her own cup and mustering on a smile that she hopes doesn’t come off too forced.

Harry has also gotten up, and now turns to her, extending his hand. “Shall we?”

She gives a court, resigned nod, and lets him guide her into the floor. She has to leave the cloak on the chair she’d been using, as she can’t very well perform the steps with it tailing after her. Other couples go down to join them, and they await the first round to begin.

“I must confess, I am not particularly good at this,” Harry says, in so low a voice she nearly misses it over the cheery melody that begins to swell onto the hall, but his words help mollify some of her worries, making her lips curl.

“Then it’s a good thing you have me as your partner, my lord,” she replies, as they do the customary bow and curtesy, “because I’m no good, either.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, looking at her as if she’d spoken in another language. “And why is that a good thing, my lady?”

“Well…” she feigns to think of it for a moment, as he guides her—rather stiffly, she must add—into the first line. “If a man is bad at dancing, but the lady he’s dancing with is not, then everybody will comment on how unlucky she is for having such a lacking partner. Now, if it’s the opposite scenario, then people will only notice how bad she is at it—“she’s cut off when he spins her in a circle, getting a jingly, girlish laugh out of her, and he lightly positions one of his hands on the small of her back, radiating that same pleasant warmth she felt when he had carried her.

He stares at her, questioningly, while she tries to suppress her laughter. “And what of us?”

Arya subdues down a little, averting her gaze, though the smile doesn’t completely leave her face. “If both of us is—well… bad, the criticism will more likely still be aimed at me, my lord. Not you.”

They switch partners then, so he can’t respond to her. It’s only a brief change, however, before she’s back in front of him, his hand grabbing hers to pull her close, a flush spreading yet again on her cheeks.

“You’re not, though,” Harry tells her truthfully. “Bad at dancing, I mean. But I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, Arya.”

It that what she was trying to do? Make him feel better? Or was she only trying to make _herself_ feel better. It’s preferable to point out one’s own shortcomings by oneself before somebody else can do it.

But of course, she can’t say any of that to him.

“If you say so, my lord,” she says offhandedly. “You may consider it my first act of wifely duty towards you.”

She had meant it as a jape, yet she still glances nervously at him, biting on her lip.

Harrion doesn’t say anything, simply raises her hand and kisses it briefly before letting go. She hadn’t realized that the set had ended, yet there are now more people leaving their places at the tables, eager to participate in the next one.

“My turn,” Arya hears a voice say behind her. It’s Bran, spotting a big grin on his face, his hand extended towards her.

“Is that alright with you, my lord?” Arya asks, looking back at Harry, who only smiles politely and nods to both her and her brother.

“Centrally. I shall retire back to my seat.”

“Much obliged, Lord Karstark,” Bran says blithely, taking Arya’s offered hand so that they can join the new dance line. Arya watches her husband’s departing back, feeling something tug at her gut akin to sadness, or mayhaps it’s regret. She had actually liked to dance with him, and she wants to tell him that she doesn’t think he’s bad at it, either.

Dancing with Bran is, in truth, far easier than it had been with Harrion, mainly because she doesn’t feel like a tangled ball of nerves while doing so, and can simply let herself be swirled around the room by her brother, neither of them caring too much if they mess the steps, laughing all the while.

“So, are you planning to ask Beth Cassel for a dance?” she questions her brother when the piece is almost done.

Bran’s blue eyes go big as sausages “Should I?” he rasps out, his voice cracking like that of a green boy.

Arya nods. “I don’t see why not.”

Let him enjoy this moment while he yet can, before he has to fully grow up, she silently petitions to the gods, and is pleased when she sees Bran and Beth take a turn on the floor together, once and then twice, smiling shyly to one another.

Many others ask her to dance with them, of course. She dances with Robb, then with Cley Cerwyn, the Smalljon Umber and Cregard Umber, and with Robin Flint. Neddy demands for her to dance with him, and she takes him in her arms and twirls him in circles around the floor, making the little boy giggle with delight.

Most of the men she dances with are already drunk, so the conversation is easy and the jokes aplenty. She looks over to Harry every now and then, but he rarely leaves his seat in the high table; he dances once with Mother, another with Alys, and a final one with a very smug looking Jorelle Mormont, who winks playfully at Arya from the other side of the hall. He doesn’t seem to be drinking too much either, just a few sips off his cup every now and then. That is a comfort to Arya—she doesn’t fancy the idea of welcoming a drunkard into her bed.

Later into the evening, the children are taken to the nursery by their nursemaids. Arya watches Jocey giving her father a dutiful peck on the cheek before taking Mistress Marsh’s hand. She makes sure to intercept them before they can leave, so she can say goodnight to the girl.

Arya knows is only a matter of time before there are spurring calls for the bedding. She dreads the very idea, ever since she saw it be done to Sansa.

A distraction comes from her inevitable, looming fate when Rickon is browbeaten by Mother into dancing with her. Her brother is an odious partner; he maintains a sour face the whole time and threatens her with stepping on her feet in retaliation for having participated in their mother’s scheme, to which she responds by painfully slamming the heel of her boot down onto his toes.

She is very satisfyingly relishing in being on the receiving end of Rickon’s rapid string of insults, when someone roars from the back of the hall.

“And I say, my lord of Stark, to bed with them!”

Robb must have agreed to the request, though Arya didn’t hear him, as there surges a rambunctious cry for both the groom and bride. Arya begins to panic, just a bit, pondering over her chances of making a run for the door, when Bran all but materializes in front of her, grabbing her by the wrist and hauling her after him through the mob of men that begin to enclose them.

“Damn it,” Bran curses under his breath when a couple of big northmen approach, obvious in their intent of grabbing for Arya, so he doubles down to her and lifts her off the ground, increasing his pace as they reach the exit of the gallery. “Rickon, you go help me pass through.”

Their younger brother, for once, complies to being ordered, dashing ahead of Bran and her, and forcefully shoves people aside with all the strength of his twelve year old body.

Oh, bloody Hells! This is the second time today that she’s been carried from one place to another, and she’s enjoyed neither of them, she thinks with ever increasing bitterness, as they enter the corridor. Bran and Rickon fight their way through the jeering, drunken men; one of them rips the crown of flowers off her hair, another one, some Flint, manages to take off both her boots and one of her stockings, and when he attempts to take the other, Arya flings a vicious kick at his face, driving him back, sneering and cursing at her direction.

Bran darts them both inside the bedchamber, calling for Rickon barrel the door, the protest of the northern getting lost at the other side. He drops her back into the floor, huffing and puffing from exhaustion. It appears he’s not as strong as he’d like to pretend to be.

Her brothers look at her for a short moment, distinctly unsure of how to proceed from there, before Bran puts his arm around Rickon’s scrawny shoulders, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Well right,” he croons out, “good luck.”

Arya snorts, though she’s not so sure if she should feel amused. “Thank you,” she still says sincerely, watching as her brothers go back out the door, leaving her all alone in the spacious, foreign room, covered in gray tapestries with illustrations of wolves and warriors, and a cheerful, cracking fire at the center, warming the whole place.

Since it is taking considerably longer for Harrion to be bought into the room, Arya uses the time to take off her dress, grateful for the front laces that remove the need of assistance. Better do it herself, is her reasoning, being left in only a simple white shift. She also gets rid of the jewelry and the one stocking she still has; then begins to fidget with her hair, struggling to get it out of the braids, finding a few tiny twigs and leaves, residue of the flowers.

The sounds of the women snickering and laughing at the other side of the room are easy to hear, so she’s already prepared when the door opens, allowing Harry to enter the room and then promptly slam the door behind him, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. He’s been stripped off his cloak, belt and tunic, leaving him in only his undershirt, pants, and boots. He evidently appreciated the manhandling just as much as Arya, if his red face and annoyed scowl is anything to go by.

They stare at each other for a long, silent heartbeat.

“That was bloody _awful_ ,” Arya drawls, and she’s rewarded with Harry’s lopsided grin.

“It was. I almost lost a boot.”

“Oh, I lost both of them, and my crown.” She runs her fingers gingerly through her hair, trying to smooth out the tangles. “I reckon it must be toppled down somewhere outside. What a pity.”

Harry sits at the side of the already opened bed, so as to take off his boots. “It was a pretty crown.”

“I guess so,” she says, focusing her attention on the back of his head. “I think I liked it because it reminded me a little bit of my sister, since she couldn’t be here.”

He shifts over to face her. “Because she’s with child, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Arya affirms. “And you see, the crowd reminded me of when she was wed. They made a tournament on her honor, and she was crowned queen of love and beauty,” she smiles a little, flashes of her sister’s elated face going through her mind, “and some of the flowers she was given were blue winter roses, so…”

“That sounds lovely,” he tells her with a small smile of his own. “I’m sorry she couldn’t be here with you.”

“Not much can be done,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders, approaching the bed cautiously, as if the man at the other side would spontaneously jump on her and ravage her then and there. “Also, I must confess that the tourney was fun.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry says. “I have never been in a tourney.” He looks down, seemingly unsure if she’s planning to get in the bed with him.

That makes her pause, feeling silly. It had been such a frivolous thing to say to him, she wagers, knowing that only time he’d been in the south had been to fight in a war he had no part in starting.

“Well, you’re not missing much, just a bunch of men roasting themselves inside metal.” She finally musters up the courage to get in the mattress, laying her head over the fluffy pillow, her hands covering her belly.

Harry looks down at her, supporting his weight with one arm, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up. She idly watches the movement of his muscles play in the light of the fire.

“That’s a funny way of describing knights,” he chuckles in a low, raspy voice, his eyes locked on hers.

Arya feels all of a sudden breathless, but her breathing is coming out more rapidly than before.

“Knights are overrated, if you ask me.”

“More into tales of warriors, are ye?”

That makes Arya smile. “Yes, I like them. Especially the ones about women.”

She notices how his gaze shifts from her face all the way to the steady rise and fall of her chest. It is then that she realizes one of the straps of her shift has fallen, leaving bare one shoulder and the side of her breast.

“Which warrior women do you like?”

Arya decides to ignore the trembling of his voice, and how her stomach seems to have dropped, though somehow in a pleasing way, to concentrate instead on his question. “My favorite is Nymeria of Ny Sar and her ten thousand ships. I like how she led her people to safety across the sea. And then she conquered Dorne, even if none of the odds were in her favor and—“ oh, no; she’s babbling, like she’s prone to do when nervous. Which she is, very much so, right now.

She gulps down, trying to calm herself. “Harry,” she says breathily, making him look back up at her, his eyes appears to have darkened, “would you kiss me? I mean—because I want to kiss you, but I think I do not dare—“ she’s babbling again; someone ought to stop her. “And I simply do not know why, it’s quite maddening—“

All of a sudden, he ducks down over her, and, _oh finally_ , his lips are on hers, kissing her experimentally, so aggravatingly slow she thinks she could burst. Arya closes her eyes and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the length of him pressing onto her, enveloping her on his warmth, on his enticing, musky scent. He coaxes her mouth to open a little so he can run his tongue through her lower lip, entailing a sight out of her.

After more of those long, languid kisses, he separates from her, panting, resting his forehead against hers, one hand tenderly caressing her flushed cheek, while he uses the other to hold himself up as not to crush her.

She leans up, giving him another kiss, loving the feel of his soft locks in her fingers. “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses in between quick kisses, as he begins to lower her back onto the pillow, capturing her lower lip with his teeth, which makes her gasp lowly.

“I’ll be gentle,” he says hoarsely, his mouth now on her neck, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin there, making her gasp again and again. The hand on her cheek travels down until it reaches her breast, and he palms it over the thin material of her shift, a bloom of something achingly pleasant flooding onto her core, making her moan in what she thinks is a rather wanton manner, but she’s far beyond caring.

“Harry,” she whispers, tugging at his scalp. She wants to kiss him again; she needs it like air, especially when his hand is kneading at her breast more insistently, making her ache all the more.

He’s breathing shallowly, when his mouth comes chasing down on hers again. She caresses his bearded jaw, opening her mouth so he can explore it at his leisure, giving experimental strokes with her own tongue. His hand leaves her chest, going further down to her calf. With all her wringing, her shift has hiked up almost to her bottom, and she opens her legs a little to leave room for him to accommodate one knee between them; she’s done that purely by instinct, but she’s prevented from pondering much about it when she notices how his rugged fingertips begin to trace a lazy path from her lower leg up to her inner thigh, so near that hot, ever increasingly wet part of her she finds herself desperately wishing he would touch—and yet, there are doubts weighting heavily on her.

Harry seems to sense the change in her, perhaps because her lips had stopped moving under his, and he pulls away, his hooded eyes clearing a bit as he looks on her uptight expression. He starts to draw small, soothing circles over her tight, and Arya bites her on her bruised lip, trying her best to dispel the unease.

“Arya,” he says, kissing her on the forehead, then her nose, which prompts her to break into a small smile, “just relax so I can make you feel good.” He kisses her neck, going lower to the exposed skin of her chest, fanning warm air over it, making her shudder. “You tell me what feels good, aye?”

Arya nods fervently, her hands flying back to his hair, another shot of pleasure surging inside her. The hand that helps support him moves to cradle her head, shifting it a little, granting him better access so he can lap and kiss at the soft exposed skin of her chest, while his other hand continues to go up at a painstakingly slow pace, stopping mere inches below its destination.

“Yes,” Arya gasps, ”yes, yes, yes.”

* * *

Arya begins to regain consciousness ever so gradually and, for only a short moment, she’s not quite aware of where she’s in or what she’s been doing.

Then it hits her, like a bolt of lightning, and she opens her eyes abruptly, blinking rapidly to adjust to the dim light coming only from the window and the hearth’s dying fire.

There’s a man, lying on his side, only a few inches away from her in the bed. He’s fast asleep; his chest moves slowly with every lethargic breath he takes, his soft snores are barely audible to her.

That man is her husband, and he is in the same bed as her, naked. Equally as naked as she is.

Arya allows this realization to fully sink into her mind. She no longer has her maidenhead, Harrion Karstark just took it from her, mare hours ago, to make her fully his wife. There’s no coming back from that.

Or at least, that’s what Arya has been told all her life. Yet she… doesn’t feel different. Not at all. Not really. She doesn’t feel as if she’s lost anything irreplaceable, or as if something singularly precious had been stolen from her.

She feels a little sore, maybe.

Similar to spending a long day in the saddle, she muses, though that’s a queer sort of analogy to make.

‘I’ll be gentle’, she recalls Harry’s promise. Well, he had been true to his word, sometimes infuriatingly so, just in Arya’s opinion, but she isn’t sure if she’s permitted to tell him that.

She begins to sit up, carefully as not to wake him, when she notices his limp arm slide from her hip until it falls at his side. Oh, so he had continued to hold her, even after she had fallen asleep. Arya had thought—well, that he wouldn’t have any reason to do that. Growing up, her septas had always told Arya that a good wife should lay in the bed, unmoving, and wait for her husband to take his pleasure with her, after which he would simply roll of off her and go to sleep.

But hadn’t been what happened betwixt her and Harry. Or rather, it hadn’t felt like that to Arya.

She glances back at his still form, using the sheets and furs of the bed to cover her bare chest, the faint light shining through the half drawn curtains illuminating the side of his face and shoulder. He looks younger, somehow, while in slumber. His features serene, not the usual serious and guarded front he typically puts on to the world. And when he bedded her, his expression had changed too, it became softer, yet his eyes were filled with want, that much had been obvious to her; a part of her couldn’t help but savor in the fact that she had been the cause.

He had asked after her comfort throughout it all; had told her to let him know if he was hurting her, and she had only attained to say that no, she was not hurt, over and over, because she might not have been in pain, yet she sure had felt awfully frustrated, as the pressure inside of her continued to grow, and thought his fingers inside her had felt wonderful, more than anything she had ever managed to accomplish on her own, it hadn’t been enough.

And when at last he had entered her, Arya had been surprised more than anything else. No, it hadn’t felt pleasurable, precisely. Awkward may be a better word to describe it, edging to painful but never quite touching it. He had started out with a few tentative, gentle thrust, trying to get her used to the sensation, distracting her by kissing and caressing every part of her body he could reach. She had tried to meet his hips with movements of her own, until, ever so gradually, the discomfort had faded.

Pleasure had ensured soon after that.

There’s a sticky substance between her legs; her husband’s dried seed. She brings one hand over her flat belly, aware of what could be taking root there. A child. Though of course is far too early to know. Most women don’t convince on the first night. The only one Arya knows of is her own mother.

“Arya, are you alright?”

She’s startled by the sound of Harry’s voice, raspy with sleep. His eyes remain shut, though she can notice how his breathing has stabilized.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, flopping down onto the mattress, so close to his warmth but not daring to nuzzle into it. “Did I wake you?”

It’s quite obvious that she did, yet he doesn’t point it out. Opening his eyes drowsily, he takes one hand from under the sheets to draw some of her brown hair away from her face and place it behind her ear. Arya closes her eyes at the contact, unable to ignore how his thumb faintly brushes her cheek before pulling away.

“You couldn’t sleep,” he says; is not a question. “Are you feeling unwell?”

She opens her eyes when she hears the alarm in his tone. “No, not at all!” she assures him hurriedly. “I was just… thinking.”

“About what?”

Arya pauses: she can’t very well confess to him she’d been mulling over their coupling, or the possibility that she may already be carrying a child.

“I was thinking about the Karhold,” she tells him instead.

That seems to pick Harry’s interest. He pops up his head on his arm, and Arya snuggles deeper into the covers, worried that he might catch a glimpse of her naked breast. She doesn’t know why she’s feeling shy all of a sudden; it’s not as if he hasn’t already seen that part of her—and more. In fact, he’d shown to be especially fascinated by her breast, before. That thought makes her blush; she hopes is not visible in the darkness.

“What about the Karhold?” he asks her.

“Well, I simply wondered how will it be like living there,” Arya answers. “I know it’s close to the beach.”

“It is,” says Harry, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Arya returns it. “I reckon I should like to have a beach nearby once more. I miss it from when I was fostered at White Harbor.”

He seems to hesitate. “The Karhold is far too humble to resemble White Harbor, though.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she clarifies, worrying at her lip. “I just miss the ocean, is all.”

“I will try to take you there as soon as you have settled,” Harry says, falling back onto his pillow.

A yawn escapes Arya, but she nods, smiling sleepily at him.

“Would you describe it to me please?”

He does. He tells her about the beautiful sights made by the ocean waves crashing against the tall, rocky cliffs of Karhold, forming white foam below. About fishermen taking on their boats in the mornings and returning in the evenings, packed with the day’s fruits. About seagulls flying high in the sky while the sun sets on the vast horizon.

And Arya is lulled back to sleep, while hearing the low, steady voice of her husband.

* * *

> _305, the Eyrie of Arryn,_
> 
> _Dear Arya,_
> 
> _Well for starters, I must say that it’s not about being ‘nice’ to Aunt Lysa, as you put it; but she is still the Lady of the Eyrie, not me, and I ought to treat her with the deference that entails._
> 
> _It’s just so difficult to do sometimes. She can be so horrid—you know that already. Before the pregnancy it was easier for me, I believe, because I didn’t have to see her so often, and I could regularly leave the keep. Now, though, she takes me to the sept daily so that we, accompanied by several septas and septons, can pray for the delivery of a son._
> 
> _Please do not get me wrong: of course I think it is important to keep our devotions to the Seven. And there’s nothing else I desire more than to give my husband a proper heir. Yet, as you wrote, we are still so young. I should think I would like the idea of having a daughter. Can you imagine? A little girl with Mother’s hair and, mayhaps, Father’s eyes._
> 
> _I write this to you in complete confidence, naturally. The fate of this child doesn’t rely upon me, but rather, is on the hands of the gods, and I can only hope for the better._
> 
> _Now, don’t you think I’ve forgotten about a very important topic regarding you—yes, Mother already detailed the dress to me, and it seems to be lovely. I so wish I could see it for myself, and I regret not being able to be there with you in such an important day. However, I am confident you shall be more than fine._
> 
> _I almost forgot!_ _Before I finish this letter, you can tell Rickon that what Bran wrote is completely true. I was there myself to see it. Our brother can be not so nice, every now and then, if the fancy gets to him._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Sansa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I'm going to address first the elephant in the room. I know I cut on the sex scene pretty abruptly and people may be upset by that, but those people don't know that this is literally the first time I write smut in YEARS lmao. Since I was a teenager, and boy was I cringe about it, so I think it didn't come out too shabby, though I still won't become a bodice-ripper novelist anytime soon.
> 
> Tbh I didn't just want to breeze through that part bc I think is something important for Arya to reflect on, since she was still pretty sheltered, as noblewomen in Westeros trend to be. Like when she thinks that you cannot simply ride a dude like a horse during sex or in general not tell him what she wants. I worried that I made her too weird or something like that in this chapter but being honest I think it kinda makes sense given what the culture had drilled into her head since childhood i.e stay still and let the man do his thing. Of course that will start to change as she gets more comfortable in her relationship with Harry. Tho I will kind of just reference it.
> 
> Btw Arya babbling when nervous or excited is 100% canon. Remember when she and her gang encountered the BwB and Harwin recognized her and she went on a long rant about Jon? Adorable.
> 
> Now Sansa. The big ass flashback was my way of make up for the fact that she won't really appear on this fic. I think the sister's relationship is complicated and I also think fandom oftentimes simplifies their conflicts or over exaggerates them. Of course Sansa bullied Arya and that affected her deeply. That's why she constantly compares herself in a unfavorable light to Sansa, and she can be resentful or exasperated with her at times, but at the same time they do love each other and that's why Arya gets super protective of Sansa when they're at the Vale. Especially regarding Lysa Arryn.
> 
> I explored their relationship telling the story of Arya's two 'crushes' and how Sansa was sorta part of them and reacted to them. The first one, Mors (an OC, who btw in my first outline was kind of a Gendry prototype and I'm glad he kinda took over with his personality bc when I write Gendry is gonna be the real deal. But I ended up liking him, ngl. A pity he won't appear ever again in my story), is commonfolk so Sansa… is not really nice to him. Is it classist of her? Well yeah, and that's not ok, but I also think she had a point in that people could barely 'approve' of him and Arya being friends, let alone anything else. And yet Arya still had a right to be upset, I would say.
> 
> Then Gyles (who is very much a canon character; he appears in the Alayne Vale chapters, as one of Sweetrobin 'squires') is very much the sort of guy Sansa idealizes, but then turns out to be an asshole (not the canon character, who doesn't have too much of a personality outside of being annoyed by Sweetrobin, which tbh I kin).
> 
> I think Arya, as much as she fancies herself a pragmatic, wouldn't be completely immune to cute boys being sweet on her, but at the same time not believing they would actually be interested in her, and that links a lot to her own insecurities and *coughs* Septa Mordane *coughs*.
> 
> At least, is part of the parallel between Arya and Sansa in the Vale: the first having her 'men suck' epiphany while the later is all like '~I never had a dream come true, 'til the day that I found you~'.
> 
> Btw I kinda was inspired by Sansa's show coronation gown for her wedding dress. Just the skirt, though; the rest was ugly, at least imo. I know I tend to describe the clothing too much but tbh it's not bc I enjoy it. Like, it's a pain but one of the things I hated on the show is how they made everyone look, for lack a better word… poor. I mean historically, nobles flexed their power by how they dressed, and I don't think the Starks or even the North as a whole would be any different. In particular now that Robb gained that sweet, sweet Lannister gold he would use it to flex on others by clothing his family nicely. Arya dresses simply comparatively but she still dresses well lol.
> 
> Next chapter we get to the Karhold, finally. It's a long one so I will prob just divide it in two two update sooner.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you made it all the way down here, first of all, thank you! That was long, wasn’t it?  
> I’m not new in writing fic or in the ASoIaF fandom, I am new writing fics for the ASoIaF fandom lmao. I hope y’all enjoy this little self-indulgent project I decided to start during quarantine. Though I’m writing this story mostly for myself, I’m still putting a lot of thought in it, to try to make it as believable as possible.  
> It’s also the first time I’m writing a fic in english, though I think I have a pretty good hold on the language, it was still difficult to decide for me to make the leap.  
> Maybe you’ll be wondering why I decided to write about such a random pairing. Well, I’m first and foremost a Gendrya shipper, and I was as pissed as the next person about by D&D bullshit ending for Arya.  
> So I started to consider writing a fic in which Arya and Gendry got married and raised a child in a cottage outside some village (literally like that, they deserved a soft ending, dammit!). But then I started to doubt myself, especially because I wouldn’t know how to handle the show characters… because I don’t like them lol.  
> Arya finding happiness and a sense of belonging and having children wouldn’t leave me. I wanted to explore her character without having to worry about how I handled Gendry’s.  
> Harry Karstark? I like the dude! He wasn’t my initial choice but the more I thought about it the more right he sounded for the purposes of the story. We know that he is brave and good in battle, and has so far survived a hedge knight, Roose Bolton and the Lannisters, which is quite a feat imo. I just thought he would be a dynamic character to write about, but since we don’t know that much about him, I could concentrate more in getting Arya’s character and personality right, and making it mostly about her and her development.  
> I hope I succeeded. Obviously she’s not the Arya from the books. Less traumatized, for starters. Yes, losing her father and Jon was a huge blow for her, but she still has the rest of her family there with her, even if she doesn’t feel like they understand her most of the time, she still knows how much they love her.  
> We’re seeing an older Arya, too, and so I tried to write her as such. I used a little of what we know of Lyanna to work on my characterization of older!Arya. Not too cliché or childish, like that she only wears breeches and hates dresses, when in reality she doesn’t mind wearing them during aGoT (that’s after she has to go into hiding and they become no longer practical), and even considers packing some of her dresses with her when she flees the Red Keep, it’s just that she’s not good at keeping them clean.  
> I tried some of Lyanna’s pragmatism for Arya. We know that Lyanna wasn’t opposed to marriage, per se. She was opposed to marriage to ROBERT, bc Robert was a fuckboy, and would never respect her.  
> Arya, on the other hand, doesn’t have that low opinion of Harry. She knows, even if she will not say it out loud, that he’s a good man, and remembers that he treated her kindly when she was a child. But at the same time, she associates him with the beginnings of an embarrassing crush, and then the loss of her beloved brother, and those feelings get tangled in her head, confusing her and frustrating her.  
> But Arya is a practical and down-to-earth girl. She wants children and she also realizes that she has to start to move on, and crave a future for herself, like the rest of her family. It’s just that she doesn’t want to be reduced to just someone’s wife or mother.  
> This story operates under the AU of what if Jon Arryn never died (Littlefinger did die for unknown reasons, that’s why he never advised Lysa to poison her husband) he and Stannis worked together to expose Cersei and Jaime’s affair. It’s pretty popular in the fandom the theory that initially, Renly’s plan wasn't to name himself king, but rather make an alliance with the Tyrells, expose Cersei, install Margaery as queen, and size power from there, which he pretty much does here, and it became even more easy for him to do so after Stannis died and Jon Arryn was like ‘I’m retiring’, so Robert could only look to his youngest brother to do his work for him.  
> Now how Stannis died and more details on the war are gonna be revealed later on. I didn’t want Arya to just go ‘As you Know’ on the whole thing. So later we'll know what happened to Theon (I like him so nothing terrible lol), and Dorne’s involvement in the war (they didn’t side with either part, obvs).  
> Okay, this author note already got too long, so I’m gonna leave it at that.  
> Please leave me a comment if you can. To see if the fic is any good, and if my english grammar and spelling need any improvement. I’m open to any kind of criticism so long as it’s constructive!  
> Thanks!


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